Blood on the Trident
by The Banner Holder
Summary: The heir to Riverrun was a drunk, a whore-monger, a dilettante...Until one day, everything changed. A modern ASOIF fan lands up inside the heir to the Riverlands, Edmure Tully. Inspired from the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.
1. Prologue

_First, something about me- I like happy endings, I like fantasy, and I love procrastination. I also love fanfiction- though I haven't been able to indulge in my taste for it much over the past few years._

 _I've loved the World of Ice & Fire ever since I read Game of Thrones way back in 1999 (wow, that makes me feel pretty ancient!) I didn't start following the series until my cousins forced me to sit down & put my distaste for fantasy-derived TV/ Movie media for once. I liked it at first- though I can't say the same for the last few seasons…_

 _So, I've decided to try my hand at my own version- independent of what D &D& co. are trying, and a bit more cheery & happy-go-lucky than what GRRM has done. Let me jot down a few points I'll be aiming for in my story._

 _This fic will be, in part, fairly comprehensive look at how medieval society and economies really functioned. As such, expect a fair bit of deviation from the original canon if the canon doesn't make economic or politico-military sense._

 _As I said earlier- I love happy endings, and so my subject for the series will be the most unhappy place in Westeros- the Riverlands, and their overlords- the Tullys. If there's one thing that really leaps out at the reader about the Riverlands, it's the phrase 'wasted potential'. A remediation of this will be on the cards._

 _I love losers as well- & so I'll pitch in with Edmure Tully the Thickheaded. He really gets the shit end of the stick from both allies & enemies- and most of it isn't even his fault at all._

 _This story will be more faithful to the books than to the show. To be frank, I haven't watched most of Season 4 & 5 at all. Yet, it's simply far too safer to pitch fanfiction on the Game of Thrones page than on the ASOIF page. GRRM hates fanfiction with a capital H- & while he can hammer the second page out of the park, PR & legal issues might mean that HBO might stay their hand with the first. _

_My knowledge may not be exhaustive and so I would welcome comments and reviews regarding the fic. The first attempt- in early 2015- had been a fairly amateur effort in hindsight, primarily because I wasn't able to merge my vision of Westeros with the real deal._

 _At least this is according to the rough plans I've made up for this fic. If you have any tips, please mention them in the reviews or message me._

 _PS- And yes, the title is a reference to the Warhammer book- Blood on the Reik. I am a huge Warhammer fan- and am aware that this might out a rather Warhammer-ish taint on the GRRMverse. Please excuse that- as well as any of my Germanophilic or Sinophilic quirks that might turn up._

 _PPS- Expect a lot of OCs. GRRM had modelled Westeros on medieval England- which differed from mainland Europe in having very young age of maturity & marriage; things were more 'normal' on the Mainland. As such, an astonishing number of characters would be very young or as yet unborn for most of the Fic. I won't be including any OCs in the big Houses though. For this reason, I'm postponing the date when the Canon tale is supposed to begin- from 299 AC to 302 AC. _

_PPPS- I'll be trying to portray as realistic a Westeros as possible and will be borrowing heavily from companion material- both official, such as the World of Ice and Fire by Elio Garcia and GRRM, and unofficial, such as the Geological guide to Westeros released by some students at Stanford. There will be redundancies as well as conflicts- so drop a line if you have any suggestions._

 **PROLOGUE**

 **289 AC**

His hands were shaking by the time the sun went down. He had been riding since noon, with nary a rest and precious little wine to steady his progress- surely no one could grudge him a rest now! Black Walder had commanded him not to rest until the boy was found- but surely he wasn't expected to search through the night. That'd be stupid!

Merrett Frey gritted his teeth. It wasn't as if Stevron was Lord and master of the Freys! Lord Walder would've never bothered with the search if he'd been the one giving orders. The latter's disdain for authority was well-known over the Seven Kingdoms. He would have Stevron's hide when he awoke from his illness…

Or was it- if he awoke?

The old Lord had taken ill a month ago- & for the greater part of that time, had been lying half-conscious & delirious in his rooms. The Maester- a simpering fool if anyone asked Merrett- had put the sudden illness down to the foul weather they'd been having lately about the upper reaches of the Green Fork and the shock of Balon's rebellion- but Merrett doubted the last reason. His father had never been one for foolish sentiment & flowery declarations of fealty to his superiors.

Whatever be the reason, Stevron was now in command- & he was eager to start making up for over sixty years of ill-feeling between the Twins & Riverrun. Walder Frey hadn't taken to the bed six days when five hundred Frey men had marched down to Seagard under the command of Ser Stevron's eldest, Ser Ryman, & his sons. They'd hung the Water Tower with the heron of Hereford, the Haigh pitchfork, and the Charlton mistletoe that day. Ser Leslyn's armour had shone like burnished gold in the dappled light of dawn and Lord Charlton's sons had new warhorses- but the riches & arms of the Crossing had outshone them all. Ser Stevron- no doubt hoping for Lord Hoster's help if there was a question about the succession- had gone out of his way to outfit the Frey army. Every Frey footman had good castle-forged spearheads, cartloads of supplies were being sent to Seagard, and every hedge-knight in the area had been given two silver dragons & promises of plunder to join the army. Every grown man they'd been able to scrounge up around the Crossing had been drafted into service. Every grown man- save Merrett. Once upon a time, he'd have ranked among the numbers as well- but now the least squire of the herons of Hereford or even the filthy frog-eaters of the Crannog had more right to wear a suit of armour than him.

Merrett had been glad to see them go. But then had come the raven from Riverrun. Edmure Tully, son of Lord Hoster, had somehow managed to lose his drunk arse while romping over the Riverlands with his equally useless friends. Merrett snorted; if he had been sixteen and a knight with the prospect of a war in front of him, wild horses couldn't have kept him away- and here were the young lordlings of the Riverlands playing truant to go whoring while the West was burning. Now wonder Ser Brynden no longer saw eye to eye with Lord Hoster & his whoremongering heir. Nevertheless, the raven had come- and to Merrett's misfortune, he had been been visiting Slaitwick- the miserable little Motte and Bailey of House Slait near Oldstones- at the time. The war may have just began- but the miserable carrion hawk roosting on Robert's shoulder had already called for more taxes- and so Black Walder had packed off many of the family to wrangle a few more dragons from their vassals. Merrett suspected that he wouldn't be too unhappy if some of his kin were to go missing in those troubled times; indeed he'd feared for his own life then- the Slaits were distant kin to the Frogmen and still kept the Old gods.

While the Slaits had paid up Arryn's penny, they had not done so without plenty of grumbling. And they'd sent Merrett to hunt for the missing brat without an escort- despite knowing that the upper reaches of the Green Fork were no place to be for a lone rider.

Maybe Black Walder would get his wish after all.

Ser Stevron was strict & demanding- but he knew that blood was blood. Ryman was simply stubborn & greedy. His sons were worse. As bad as Edmyn was, anyone could see that young Walder, as dangerous as he was now, would be a nightmare in the future. It wouldn't have been much of a matter if Lord Walder had been still hale & hearty- or whatever passed for 'hale & hearty' in a man of One & Eighty- but it was common knowledge that Ryman chaffed under his father's thumb, & that Old Walder's death would only lead to conflict. A conflict which a fat drunk like Merrett would have no place at all.

Merrett suppressed a shiver. Whispering a quick prayer for his father's long life, he pulled the wineskin hung from his saddle, uncorked it, and took a swallow. The wine was thick and a bit sour, but Merrett was glad for it anyway. Wine was the only thing that kept his headaches at bay these days.

Or maybe it was all for the good?

A knight in his armour was useless at sea and Westeros had no better sailors than the Ironborn. Robert might be the Warrior himself with his hammer but what good was a hammer when your foe was on an island a hundred miles away? Even in the Twins, they had heard of the Unconquerable Balon and his brothers- especially Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Admiral of the Iron Fleet. It was said that the Kraken fought at sea in full plate, that his axe weighed a full twenty stone. It had been Victarion who had lead the assault upon Lannisport. Tywin Lannister himself had taken pause before confronting him there and it was well known that the attack on Seagard would've ended far differently if it had ben Victarion or Euron in command instead of Rodrik. Lord Redwyne was a coward who pissed his breeches at the sight of Ironborn. Stannis was untested. Stark had not seen the inside of a ship his entire life. The same for Ser Barristan as well.

The horse started suddenly and Merrett, with a jerk, realized where he was. While he'd been meditating over the family concerns, his horse had stuck the path by itself- and now he found that he'd reached the ruins of the ancient castle of Oldstones. The curtain wall that had once protected the Keep was now no more than a waist-high crumbling fence spotted with lichen- yet Merrett knew well that even such denuded ruins often served as lairs for outlaws & other such vermin. As he fingered the hilt of his sword, Merrett, once again for the thousandth time in his life, thought back at that fateful day under the eaves of the tress of the Kingswood…

He shook his head, & reached out for the wineskin again but it was empty now. It was getting dark now & his head rang like a thunderclap. Hell- where had the time flown? He looked around and realized that the damned horse had been going around in circles; he was still at the Oldstones, this time near the old gate. The ruins were more extensive here; and the place was overgrown with vegetation. There were gorse, bracken, thistle, sedge and blackberry bushes growing between the pines and grey-green sentinels. Elsewhere skeletal elm, ash and scrub oaks choked the ground like weeds.

Still wrestling with the headache, he barely paid any attention as his horse wandered into the in the very same yard where Tristifer's weathered stone sepulchre had rested for more than a thousand years. Damn the outlaws, Merrett thought angrily. Damn stupid Marq Piper; none of this would've happened if not for that stupid Piper brat, damn him. Damn the horse, damn the Ironborn, damn that pretentious little shit Leslyn, damn Balon, damn Stevron, damn Lord Hoster & the Blackfish and Arryn and Robert, damn that little vermin of Hoster's & all his little vermin friends, damn the Darrys, damn the Slaits, damn the Sumners, damn that whore Wenda, and all the outlaws in the World, damn them all…

From the corner of his eye, he could see the tomb itself with its crumbling stone & lichen & wild roses growing all over it. Fireflies flew around it, waist-high grass surrounded it, and a thick nest of creepers- almost as big as a large dog- lay on the king's chest. The wind leapt up- and an eerie whistling rang within the small clearing.

'Seven hells, the smallfolk say this place is haunted', he briefly thought- before everything changed.

First, there was the wind- & then came thunder & lightning. Merrett Frey lifted his neck in surprise and sudden fear; for suddenly the air smelt funny, metallic & heavy, & the very sunlight- what little of it remained that eve- shimmered.

The entire World seemed pregnant with some sort of great expectations.

Merrett spurred his horse and turned the beast's head around. No sense in risking an a spring rainstorm out in the open. Beneath the castle ruins, the lower slopes of the hill were thickly forested; what better place to wait out a rainstorm. He'd just gone round the corner of the yard door when he registered that for the first time in decades, his head-ache was gone.

And then the World exploded.

A bright light, brighter than a million suns if they'd shone out in the sky all at once, flashed all around him, its intensity seemingly enough to bring a man to his knees. A raw guttural rumbling rose, grew into a torrent of pure sound, and ended in a screech- and in the midst of it, Merrett could've sworn he heard the raw scream of a human throat. For a moment, the sky turned red and then black, & the castle around him seemed to be lifted into the heavens. Then all collapsed- & the Frey man found himself lying among the fallen leaves, with his horse nervously pawing the ground near him.

Gasping & coughing, Merrett pulled himself onto his feet and patted the neck of the creature. 'Mother have mercy', he muttered as he gritted his teeth in pain. His head-ache was back with a vengeance & along with it had brought a new set of aches & pains across his spine. His ankle hurt like a bitch though; it appeared he'd twisted it when he'd fallen. His horse, miraculously, had not run off & was still standing by his side- but then again they said animals were too dumb to understand danger anyway. Good stroke of luck that…but what on Earth had happened?

There didn't seem to have been any change in the Castle itself though; if not for the lack of the 'strangeness' he'd felt, it'd seem nothing had ever happened. The same fading light, the same grey tomb, the same crumbling walls…and in the fading light of the evening, he realized what exactly he'd mistaken for a creeper at first.

On the grey stone sepulchre that was the final resting place of the Hammer of Justice- Tristifer, the Fourth of his Name, of House Mudd, once the King of Rivers and Hills of Westeros- lay a young lad of fifteen with long, strong limbs & stocky build. His clothing was finely made- but heavy riding & exposure to the elements had reduced them to ruin; smoke rose them in disturbing little curls. A scraggly auburn beard covered his cheeks, and Merrett knew that if someone looked into the kid's eyes, he'd find them to be as blue as the waters of the rivers that gave the Riverlands their name. For there was no doubt that this boy was the same boy the entire Riverlands had been searching for in the midst of a full-fledged rebellion, the boy whose horse had run off during a hunt & who'd gone unseen by anyone for the past six days, the boy to search for whom Lord Hoster had been on the verge of calling off his banners from the frontlines of the rebellion.

The only surviving son of Lord Hoster Tully, and heir to the Riverlands, Ser Edmure Tully.


	2. Ironman's Bay

**EDDARD**

 **289 AC**

The previous night, he had dreamt of Dragons.

They were great and magnificent as they had danced in the skies. There had been three of them and he had watched from the ground how they swooped and played, throwing great shadows upon the green earth below.

The first among them was a lanky thing with long limbs. Its brown leathery wings were slender but nimble. The second was smaller and yet, for some strange reason, seemed stronger. This one was pale white in colour; the underside of its wings a dark blue that looked purple in the dying light of the sun. the last of them, the black one, was the smallest- or maybe it merely looked as such, so high did it fly.

 _Dragonspawn_ , something whispered in his ears.

The wind rose up, buffeting the dragons, tossing them around like so many pieces of straw. Grass rustled, clods of earth were torn up- so fierce was the coming storm. Far away in the mountains, Eddard heard the rumbling of earthquakes- and nearer him in the skies above, shone lightning and roared thunder again and again. Eddard looked down- and saw that he stood in the middle of a fast stream. And then a screech and down came the first dragon. It fell a hundred yards away, screaming and shrieking in pain. Blood spurted out of it from great slashes all over its body, and from its throat came a litany of pain that would've driven Eddard to tears if he had any left.

 _Dragonspawn_ , came the voice again- this time fiercer and deeper and greater.

Now it was the White dragon that fell from the skies but unlike its sibling, it gave no voice to its suffering. Its head had been smashed to pieces. Blood and other fluids leaked out of the ruin that was its snout, greyish chunks dribbled out of the hollows of its skull, its horns were splintered into hairy threads that waved weakly in the rising wind. It was then that Eddard realized that it- and its kin- were merely children, not even a few feet across.

 _Dragonspawn_ , came the voice as if it was the Storm god himself smiting his foes- and Eddard looked up, every fibre of his being trembling with fear.

 _Promise me, Ned_ …

"You look like shit, "Robert greeted him with a broad smile when he entered the king's rooms the first thing in the morning after waking up. The world was still grey & dreary, and the sun had yet to climb above the horizon- but all that meant nothing to Robert these days. Peace didn't suit his friend, Lord Eddard knew- and Balon's rebellion had been just the thing the bored king had wanted after these years of troubled, yet peaceful, rule. Every night, Robert would stay awake till late drinking with the hundreds of lords- great and small- who had answered his call- and yet, he would invariably be one of the first to wake up, demanding to know of the developments while he was asleep. The Ironborn- after the defeats at Seagard and Whispering Sound- had shifted to a more defensive strategy; and Robert was powerless to act until Stannis brought the Royal Fleet around Dorne and handled the Iron Fleet.

"Didn't sleep too well, Your Grace," Ned said as he yawned one last time. He hadn't been sleeping too well these past few days. Every day came with new reports of burnt farms and butchered households all across the Westerlands. The land was riddled with fast-flowing streams and tiny villages; the royal host was large but couldn't be everywhere at once but the Ironborn longships were fast and struck at will.

"Me neither," grinned Robert savagely. "I'm just waiting for Stannis to sweep in from the south. After he gets rid of their miserable little boats, I'll be the first one on their islands. Just wait until I get my hands on Greyjoy."

Ned frowned. "The Ironborn are good sailors. Stannis is a good commander but a bit more prudence might be needed in such matters, Your Grace."

Robert threw back his head and laughed, "Don't worry you, Ned. One way or the other, we will crush those miserable squids. Fucking hell…"

The rising sun sent shafts of white light though the mists that covered the seas around Pyke. Both men in the room could now see the dozens of ships that dotted the Ironman's Bay. There'd been far fewer a week ago- but Robert had ordered every lord with a holding on the Sunset Sea to send whatever vessel they could spare and fast. But what they had in numbers, they lacked in quality. Most of the ships they saw were small merchant ships, meant for hugging the coasts and rivers, fishing boats which would have a hard time holding more than ten men, Catboats and Rigs contributed by lords with more loyalty than wealth. Apart from the few galleys owned by House Banefort, they had no warships at present.

Banefort itself was not the richest of the Westerlands' keeps. The place was draughty, the lands were rocky and stark. The accoutrements of the very rooms they were in, sparse & weathered- but maybe that was to be expected from the recent events. After all, the Banefort- while one of the most powerful seats of the Westerlands- wasn't one that would ordinarily see a King's visit. And Robert himself had dismissed the state rooms originally given to him and insisted on getting the most westward of the rooms the Keep had to offer.

Robert waited until Ned seemed to settle down before bringing up the news they had received at supper the day before.

"Good for us, I suppose. Won't have to worry about a succession crisis in the Riverlands."

Ned nodded grimly. "Aye. Maester Luwin tells me Catelyn has been inconsolable all this time. He wrote that she hadn't been out of the Sept all these days. The Gods favour her."

"Not Edmure though. Some Frey found him, poor brat," said Robert. "Won't wish one of them on my worst enemy," He snarled.

"They've sent a mighty company here," Ned reminded Robert.

Robert nodded. "True- but few supplies. Until we have a clear path to the Iron islands, it's supplies we need, not soldiers. And I have no desire to ask mighty Tywin for any favours."

"He was the one who asked for your aid," Ned told him. "You don't need to like the man to fight the Realm's foes."

"Easy for you to say," snorted Robert as he reached for a jar of red wine on a small table by his side. "You're not married to one of them."

Not this again, sighed Eddard mentally. While he had no love for Lannisters himself, he had been shocked to find the level of disdain Robert held towards his own kin, and even more to see that he made no secret of the fact even among strangers. Ned's own marriage had been to a women not of his choosing but Cat and he had managed to find bliss in their partnership. He had hoped Robert could see the same within his own joinery and had been saddened to find that, even after two children, he hadn't.

"Still thinking about Hoster's brat?" asked Robert when he noticed the perturbed look on Ned's face. "He'll be fine, fine. Brynden Tully set off from the Vale not a week past. There was another raven from Lord Varys in King's Landing at dawn."

Varys was the king's master of whisperers. He served Robert now as he had once served Aerys Targaryen. Eddard distrusted him- as he distrusted most Southrons but no one could contest that the eunuch was a most effective spymaster. Or maybe, he thought, that was exactly why he distrusted Varys. "I didn't know he had his spies in the Vale as well."

"He has spies everywhere except for where they matter," grunted Robert. "The Blackfish rides home and I have to hear of it but Lord Whisperer has no clue what Balon Bellyache was up to or where Darry has vanished."

"Every man makes mistakes. Even great lords." reasoned Eddard.

"Varys is not a man," replied Robert bluntly.

"That is no argument…" started Eddard but Robert cut him off.

"And he is no lord either, unless it's of webs and secrets," He poured some wine for Eddard. "But enough of the Spider. If Brynden wants to care for his nephew instead of guarding Jon's home, that's between Jon and him. Poor Jon! Between that wife of his and now his miserable goodbrother, he must be at his wit's end."

Ned accepted the drink. The wine was rich and heady; too rich in fact for a Northerner to make a habit of drinking in the morning- but he had no desire to insult Robert. It was important to maintain propriety in front of a King- even if said King called one a brother. "Is he really as bad as Ser Ryman was telling me at Supper yesterday?"

Robert snorted, "You believed him?"

"Not at all. I have heard of his reputation." Thanks the gods it wasn't Arbor Red; Ned hated Arbor Red.

"Well, you should have. Frey he might be but the man was understating it as far as I know." Robert drained his goblet and stretched, the massive muscles under his doublet rippling like waves. "Young Edmure and his bunch of lordling friends…they're well known down south, they are. Drinking through the day, and whoring through the night. Seven hells, Ned- if they weren't such a pack of lightweights, I would've had them at court."

Eddard frowned. He had no love for drunkards and even less for those who lay with whores- though as he had told Robert, he knew that men had weaknesses and he was the last person to grudge them theirs, given his own sins. It was funny to see Robert disapproving of such things though; his friend's appetites were well known. "What do you mean? What have they done?"

"Rather what they haven't done. Do you see any many young Riverlander knights in the host camping below us?" asked Robert. "Neither do I. When the Blackfish was young, he used to lead regular sorties on the Riverlander side of the Mountains of the Moon. Now, they come to me whining when the Mountain clans attack and raid the Green Fork valley. The place hasn't been doing so well since Hoster started taking ill. And the rebellion was pretty bad on them."

"Edmure's not the only knight in the Riverlands," Ned defended his goodbrother. "Lord Hoster doesn't lack for knights."

"Knights they call themselves," snarled Robert in derision. "One good Stormlander squire can take on a score of Edmure's idiots. Knighthoods don't mean what they used to once..."

That was true enough, thought Eddard. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to the Queen: tall, golden, strong. With his green eyes and in his Kingsguard cloak, he looked like a maiden's dream, the very picture of chivalry. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered 'Kingslayer' behind his back. Eddard wondered whether it would have been such a loss if Robert had brought him along with his army; maybe the soiled Knight could've repaired some of his tarnished name in battle. Maybe he would've been slain in combat and rid his House and the Kingsguard of a black spot on their honour. Though it seemed these days, the Kingsguard had more problems that merely him. Ser Barristan was as deadly with his blade as Eddard remembered, but his hair was whiter than ever and the wrinkles on his face deeper. Ser Arys Oakheart seemed like a dependable man but he was young and green, not someone Eddard would entrust a King's protection to. He wondered what the rest of the Kingsguard were like.

Around them, Eddard could hear the sounds of the Castle stirring. It would soon be time to break their fast, and wait- wait for the threat of the Iron Fleet to pass. And then, they would load their hosts onto the cogs and trade galleys milling under them and set off to meet a fool. Robert was right; there were many young fools in Westeros. But there were some old fools as well- and they were the ones to keep an eye on.


	3. Heart of the Sea

**MARQ**

 **289 AC**

It was the day of reckoning. Long weeks had the Lords of the Green and the Blue Fork awaited at Seagard, waiting for the order to set sail, to assault the Ironborn in their own hovels as they'd assaulted Seagard not long ago, and show the reaving squids what the King's Law was for slaving rapists and murderers. Far below him, hundreds- if not thousands- of men milled about, their shouts and yells and commands reaching even where he stood- three hundred feet above them. The bay in front of him was filled with ships of every kind- cogs, fishing boats, longships, even four huge warships, their hulks breaking the blue water in foam and shadow as far as the eye could see.

"I can see my father's dinghy," exclaimed Patrek, his eye at the Myrish spyglass that was mounted at the window. "He has reached the Petyr's Blade! They are off to war, brothers!" Tristan, Ellery, and the rest of their little group crowded around Patrek, all clamouring for a turn at the spyglass- but Marq barely gave a perfunctory nod at them and wandered off to stare out of another window.

They were in the most seaward tower in Castle Seagard, built on a tall stack a full hundred feet from land- and connected to the rest of the castle by no more than a tall bridge of stone. Seagard itself was one of the most beautiful Keeps Marq had ever seen in his life- though he'd heard his father or Lord Mallister or even Lord Hoster speak of grander, even greater Keeps to be found in the other Kingdoms. Though he'd often found that heard to believe. Sheltered by the Cape of Eagles and the Lizardlion hills from the rest of Westeros, Seagard was the most remote Keep anywhere in the Riverlands. High walls surrounded the town, and above it stood the great castle on a hill by the sea. Tall towers and turrets, flying the purple and silver eagle kept watch over Ironman's bay- long the bulwark of the Continent from the reaving pirates. Not two months hence, had Lord Jason Mallister continued the work of his ancestors when he'd broken Rodrik Greyjoy's body and fleet on the walls of the castle- and now, he had been called to arms on the Iron islands themselves.

A hand fell on his shoulder. "It's not your fault," said Patrek, worry apparent on his face. "Ed have been the one insistent on racing through the bogs."

Marq's brows furrowed in sudden anger. "And it was our job to keep up with him. Now he's lost his memory. You think…" He spat before Patrek gestured him to keep quiet.

"The squires know nothing of this. And who said anything of the sort had happened?" hissed Patrek. Behind them near the spyglass, the squires Ellery Vance, Tristan Ryger, Manfyrd Grell and newly knighted Hugo were still squabbling for a look. One by one, even the stragglers of the transport fleet were fading from view in the dull morning light.

"Has there been a raven from Riverrun?" asked Marq.

Patrek shrugged before replying, "Some of the farmers of Magpie Hills had seen Riverrun banners rushing to the Twins a few days back. Among them was the Blackfish's. Apart from that, it has just been the letters Lord Hoster had sent to Lord Norbert and my Lord father."

"You think he's preparing for war?" asked Marq, surprised at the news. The Riverlands had never been a real kingdom; just a long stretch of marches and plains and plains for the Seven kingdoms to wage their bloody wars. There had been kings and lines of kings- many of them, in fact- but few had outclassed their founder. The Tullys themselves had never been kings, only coming to power due to Lord Edmyn's services to the Conqueror- and there were many in the Riverlands who hadn't forgotten it. Only a fool ruling Riverrun would fail to keep as close an eye on Raventree Hall and Castle Darry as he did on Casterly Rock and Winterfell.

"Who? Lord Hoster?" Patrek said. "May be. He's near fifty and Ser Brynden has no heirs."

"Lady Catelyn has two sons," observed Marq. "And two daughters, I think."

"Half the Riverlands won't accept a Northern lord."

"Half the Riverlands have a hard time accepting the Tullys." Marq's eyes shone fiercely and he clasped the hilt of the arming sword at his side. "But I won't bow to any outsider, be he from North or South! If it comes to war, I will march for my friend."

"All of us will," replied Patrek quietly, looking back to see whether their conversation was attracting any interest from the boys. "But a war just as winter is ending? This Rebellion is bad enough as it is and they weren't even able to take a single village from us! A war now won't end quickly. And if King Robert and Lord Arryn and Lord Stark start taking an interest…?" He shrugged and turned away from sea. "Over there, beyond the hills and the Blue Fork and the Narrow Sea? There be Dragons."

"That's treason," exclaimed Marq in shock.

Patrek shook his head. "That's reality. But I have no intention to share Ser Jeffory's fate- or Prince Rhaegar's, for that matter. May the Seven keep Edmure safe!"

And the Seven did hear Patrek's prayers. Early next morning when the castle was barely astir, Marq was woken by someone banging on his door. He opined it to find young Ellery almost dancing in joy. "It's Ser Brynden and Ser Ed!" The young boy laughed. "Come down, Marq! Come down at once!"

They found Ser Brynden in the great hall- grim and irritable- as ever; he was shouting at poor Patrek, spittle flying, arms waving while the poor knight cowered under his wrath while Hugo and Tristan were doing their best to avoid the Blackfish's attention. "Gone? Gone? What do you mean 'Gone'? They were meant to set sail today morning, were they not?"

Patrek tried to get a word through the torrent of words, "Yes, Ser Brynden, Ser. But there was a raven…"

"From whom?" thundered the Blackfish. "Speak quickly, boy. You're still as clumsy as an aurochs! What will Jason think of me?"

"Lord Stannis, Ser," replied poor Patrek at last. He seemed to have regressed in age back to when he was still a young squire, running after the Blackfish carrying armour too heavy for his little arms. "My father…Lord Stannis threatened him with conspiracy against the Crown."

"Stannis, eh?" muttered Ser Brynden. "That overgrown stick-up-the-arse…Hmmm…Call the Castellan, Patrek."

"I am the Castellan, Ser."

For a few glorious moments, Ser Brynden stared at Patrek as if the boy had grown a second head. Slowly, he asked, "And why exactly are you the Castellan, Patrek?"

"Ser Walys took ill and Ser Stannis left us with little time to prepare…Ser Brynden?"

Marq decided to beat a hasty retreat from the Great Hall; he doubted that the way Ser Brynden's face was turning a nasty shade of purple was any good health- or for those near him. He had just turned a corner, Hugo & the young squires following at his heels, when he ran into…

"Ed!" he greeted the pale-looking young lord. "You're all right!"

Edmure smiled wanly, "Not as good as new though. Do stop wringing my arm off, will you?"

"How you're feeling?" demanded Hugo as he shook Edmure's hand. "We'd overheard Patrek and Marq were saying that you'd lost your memory," he said, uncaring of the look of consternation on Marq's face.

Edmure laughed, "Partly true, I guess. My memories have been a bit hazy since I awoke. Apparently, I was blabbering nonsense for the first two days or so…There was one good thing of all that though."

"What was that?"

"I'd forgotten how ugly you bunch were!" Edmure laughed before promptly being swapped under a horde of laughing nine and ten year olds.

Afternoon found all of them in a godswood at the outskirts of the town. Most of Lord Mallister's folk worshipped the Seven but were of the blood of the First Men- and thus, reverence for the Old Gods ran deep in the lands. Ser Brynden had been glad to see them go; he had been hard at work since morning- getting the grumbling carpenters to fashion new siege ballistae to replace those taken by the fleet, getting the fishermen to loan the Keep a few more dinghies for patrols, sending huntsmen and gardeners out to scour the surrounding woods with bloodhounds to drive out any lurking Ironborn or raiding tribesmen from the Mountains of the Moon.

"But we don't get raids by Mountain tribes on the right bank of the Green Fork! They live a hundred miles from this place!" a terrified man-at-arms had tried to explain.

Ser Brynden had yelled at him. "And how, by the seven hells, do you know that, Ser? Are you confessing to be a spy for them? Go and search the woods on the hills!"

"But the Freys don't like it when we ride too close to the Magpies!" the man had tried to explain. "The only other road for us is through Hag's Mire- and it's a morass in winter."

"Then drown in it and rid me of your stupidity," came the harsh reply. "I've had enough of you, Ser! Get out of my sight!"

They'd gathered at the Heart tree- a chiselled and gaunt face carved into the trunk, a face with fierce eyes that for some reason, always reminded Marq of an older Patrek. The godswood itself, unlike most in the South, was outside the castle- though from the ruined, broken ringwall around it, it was clear that once the kings of old had worshipped at the spot. The kings of the First Men, before the Andals came and took their lands. Or maybe not. He looked at Patrek's dark brown hair and Edmure's flaming red lock- so much like those of the Mountain Clans themselves. Who knew- maybe once it had been the Mallisters themselves who had once bowed in front of that strange face which looked so much like them…

Edmure took a seat at the roots of the tree, and waited for all of them to settle down. There were seven of them, eight if one included the sad-looking boy with the weasely face- clearly one of the Freys of the Crossing. Seeing where Marq was staring, Edmure started to introduce the boy, "This is Perwyn Frey. He is…"

"A millstone," the sad-looking Perwyn interjected morosely. "I was made squire to Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure promised to find marriages for at least two of my sisters. Hosteen drove a hard bargain."

Edmure's laughter broke the silence. "You mean young Walder, don't you? I didn't even see Ser Hosteen while I was at the Twins."

Perwyn nodded, "Aye, it's Black Walder who calls things at the Twins these days. Aenys hasn't returned from his survey of the Nyarland lands yet, Hosteen is too simple for such matters and Aegon…he's Aegon. I almost wish Ryman and Edwyn were back!"

"Aegon Bloodborn," asked Patrek, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "I've heard the name."

"Knowing Bloodborn," shrugged Perwyn. "It won't be surprise if one day King Robert hears of him."

Edmure coughed. Once he'd got everyone's attention, he started, "That's all fine- but we're not here to talk about Freys, are we?"

"You might tell us how to survive Ser Brynden," grumbled Patrek. "He has made me a servant in my own home."

"Why complain? It's your fault," smirked Hugo. "Who was the one sneaking off to the brothels every time Ser Brynden wanted someone to practice archery?"

"Archery is for Ironborn and wildlings!"

"And Stormlanders."

"What?" All of them turned to Edmure who elaborated, "The Stormlanders put great stress on archery. How else do you think they've held the Dornish Marches for all these centuries against the might of the Reach and the cunning Dornishmen? Once you take the high ground with archers, the battle is over."

There was a murmur of assents as everyone digested Edmure's words. After the words had sunk in, Edmure started again, "The Stormlanders have the best soldiers…"

"No, they don't"

"Shut up, Marq! Let him speak!" protested Tristan.

"Thank you, Tristan. As I was saying- the Stormlanders have the finest soldiers in the Kingdoms, the Reach has the most, the Dornish the most united."

"The Lannisters shit gold…" murmured Manfryd.

"And so they can buy the best arms, the Vale is defended by the mountains and the North by its snows. The Ironborn have their islands and ships."

"So?" asked Perwyn.

"What do we have?"

There was silence when he finished. The youngest among them- Tristan and Manfryd looked puzzled but the older people there were starting to see Ed's point. Patrek perked up and started to say, 2We have rivers…" but his voice trailed off when he realized what he was saying.

Edmure nodded, "That's the truth. The Riverlands are the weakest, most vulnerable of the Seven kingdoms. We don't have the gold of the Lannisters. We have no forests or mountains or swamps to defend us during war. We are fractured, broken, and disunited. I went missing for six days and that was enough for the Riverlands to almost pull out from the campaign. The entire place was on the verge of Civil war- because one by rode his horse too hard and lost his bearings in the woods."

He took a deep breath and then said, "You are some of my oldest friends and some of the most skilled I've seen in the Riverlands in my life- and yet none of us, barring me & Marq, has even come of age yet! I have plans for the Riverlands. But for them, we need unity, brotherhood"

Tristan asked, "You want something like the Night's Watch? For the Riverlands?"

"I don't want a life of celibacy, Ed," said Patrek slowly.

Edmure clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Very well, nothing about brotherhoods…An Order then. Like the orders the Reach used to have, back when the Gardeners ruled the place."

"An Order of the Heart Tree of Seagard, then?" suggested Perwyn, looking at the red leaves swaying gently above them.

"No, I want something to stand for all the Riverlands," mused Edmure.

"And I want something to remind us that we began at Seagard, "whined Patrek, a bit petulantly in Marq's opinion.

"As you wish, Patrek," he broke into the conversation. "You win. So, we are the Order of the Heart of the Sea. Now, can we please go back? I'm dying of hunger here."


	4. Hand and Queen

**CERSEI**

 **289 AC**

She sat on the Iron Throne, high above them all.

Her golden Joffrey was at her knees, smiling benevolently down on the vermin scurrying and kneeling below them. The fat oaf was absent, and so was the dwarf. Great lords and ladies bowed and begged and praised her reign. At the steps below the throne stood Jaime, her other half- golden and resplendent in his gold and red armour, and below him stood legions of her brave young knights garbed in red and gold and white.

A shadow came upon the Hall. A musty smell- reminiscent of old parchment, dusty maesters, and muggy evenings pervaded the air. Young Joffrey's smile failed and he started bawling. The Lords and Ladies and Knights in front of her shrank into darkness, Jaime leapt to her defence his armour a torrent of light that pushed back the encroaching darkness- but to no avail. A shuffling of papers, a crack of leather boots, and an old man with a face like a wrinkled toad & eyes shining with malice stumbled into sight.

"Your Grace," he said as he bowed, a perfunctory bow that betrayed only mockery. "It seems you are sitting on my throne."

"Your Grace?" A hand touched her lightly on the shoulder and Cersei jerked awake. She was in her chambers in the Red Keep with its Myrish carpets and Novroshi chairs, with their pillows embroidered in gold thread and silken velvet. Dying sunlight lit up the hangings, throwing a riot of colours on the walls. She had been sitting on a low settee near a tapestry depicting the coming of the Andals to the Westerlands.

"You had asked the King's Hand to meet you in your chambers after the Small Council's meeting was done, Your Grace," the young fool reminded her. As if she had forgotten! "He has been waiting for an audience."

"He should've come earlier," snapped Cersei angrily. "And you should've woken me up when you saw I was asleep." The girl- what was her name again- ran off, leaving Cersei to make herself presentable on her own. Disgusting behaviour, thought Cersei. One would've expected that being Queen would've brought a semblance of respect for her among the minor lords and ladies- but even her handmaidens were as disgusting and incompetent as the fat oaf she called her husband. It had been a tiring night; no wonder she had fallen asleep in the afternoon. Jaime had been distraught; some fool he used to play with as a child had been slain by the Ironborn at Lannisport and their love-making had been insipid as a result. She had spent more than half the night trying to make him see reason and even in the end, they had parted with Jaime still grousing about the verminous pirates and swearing to slaughter any Ironborn he saw next. Cersei didn't question his judgment though; for what must have been the thousandth time in the past fortnight, she wondered why her Lord father hadn't simply wiped out the miserable squids on their barren rocks. What she did question was Jaime's foolishness at the time. It was rare for Robert to leave the city; they should make the best of it as long as they could.

Arryn was pacing the waiting hall and stamping his feet impatiently when she saw him. She wanted to slap him the minute she saw him. The old Lord always seemed to bring out the worst within her. Him and his whining, simpering fool of a wife.

"Your Grace," he bowed. "I wasn't aware that you were discomposed else I might have come at a more opportune time. My duties, you observe, are fairly onerous as I suppose yours are as well."

Cersei wrinkled her nose as a musty, dank smell entered her nostrils. "My Lord Hand," she greeted him. Properties had to be maintained after all- even though she wanted to slap the snivelling, crusty old fool who perched on the fat oaf's shoulder and fed him lies. "I had asked to be kept informed of any developments in the Small Council, now that the King has gone to deliver justice to the rebels. I was disappointed not to find you here sooner."

"I presented myself as soon as the Council ended," said Arryn, two-faced and invidious as ever. "Did Lady Orne fail to announce this?"

Was that the name of that young fool? "She has been quite a trail," Cersei replied with a smile even as cursed the girl in her mind. "But I will transform her into a real Lady soon enough. We cannot expect every little child to be skilled at their duties. Lady Orne has been fairly lacking." She gestured towards a chair as she herself sat at a table near the window.

"Strange, Your Grace," the fool dared to contradict her. "She served under Lady Royce before this. It was one her recommendation that I brought the child to King's Landing."

An Arryn spy, the, Cersei realized in wrath and triumph. The little monster would have to leave her service but how to do this without rousing Arryn's suspicions? She wondered which of her servants could best handle the task…

The old man consulted his notes and pottered on, "As a matter of fact, Your Grace, I would've had to approach you even if you hadn't summoned me." He brought out a sealed letter and handed it to her.

A leaping trout in red. The Tullys. The parchment was flaky and yellow; little wonder. The Tullys were nothing more than jumped-up fishmongers who only ruled the Riverlands because of their skill in kneeling. To Aegon Targaryen, to the fat oaf…

Arryn droned on, his voice as croaky as a frog's. "I would recommend against accepting his request, Your Grace. It is quite unwise…" Cersei cut him off, her voice rising in shock.

"Request? You've read the letter?" she exclaimed in shock, rage and suspicion colouring her cheeks. This was outrageous! The fool was forgetting his position now. Even the fat oaf would have to see this once he returned.

Arryn was unperturbed. He still hadn't taken the chair Cersei had offered. "Hardly surprising, Your Grace- given that I was the one Lord Edmure had approached first. It was only when I refused to entertain him or his ideas that he broached the idea of approaching you. He wrote the letter in front of me."

Edmure? She recalled the young gangly boy who had bowed to her on the day of her wedding while his old, fat father had grinned like a fool behind him. Cersei had barely been able to suppress her disgust at the two; it had only been chance that had managed to get the two fish sisters married into old families like the Arryns and Starks, provincial fools that the two were.

"Refreshments, Lord Hand, Your Grace?" came a voice at her elbow. The Arryn spy bowed in front of them before placing a basket of orange-pin peaches in front of them. Cersei narrowed her eyes; it was not the girl's place to greet a mere Hand before the Queen! She narrowed them even further when Arryn thanked her with a soft smile and patted her shoulder. The old scoundrel, she thought with an air of triumph! It was clear that he was sleeping with the spy. Like fat oaf, like foster-father!

"You have read the letter, Your Grace?" Arryn caught her eye. The old man was tapping his feet impatiently. What impertinence, though Cersei! She glanced down at the letter hurriedly. The calligraphy was miserable, the parchment worse than any she'd ever seen. Edmure had gone on and on about tariffs and credit and 'monetary policies'- whatever that meant. Little of it made sense- but a Queen could not afford to show weakness or ignorance. She looked up and told Arryn, "It doesn't seem very responsible."

"Quite so, Your Grace. I thought so myself," Arryn sighed as he reached for the letter in her hands

"But I see no reason why it can't be done," Cersei replied quickly and her heart leapt up as Arryn's face fell.

"Indeed, Your Grace," he replied, his calm mask breaking a bit- just a bit. "I confess I have little idea of such monetary matters. I usually leave such matters to the Master of Coin but…"

"But he's been keeping ill," Cersei smiled vindictively. It was no secret that they would need a new one soon but that was no great loss; the man was another fool anyway. She hoped it would be a Lannister- maybe one of her uncles; her Lord Father would never accept a post lower than that of the Hand itself. But given the way Arryn had been packing the Court with his creatures- first Mandon Moore, then Orne and the rest- it would be necessary to build up some strength herself.

Arryn shrugged his shoulders. "His Grace has expensive tastes but the treasury has been keeping up with the strain. To tell you the truth, Your Grace, I lack a Lannister's acumen in such matters."

 _That you do. I've heard of how Arryns scoff at their Gulltown merchant kin_ , though Cersei savagely. But maybe she shouldn't be so harsh on the man. After all, few could equal a Lannister's learning and skill at managing wealth. She twisted the knife in further. "Even so, My Lord Hand. Won't you go over Ser Edmure's requests again? I may have missed something in my perusal."

"Quite so," agreed Arryn, flipping through his notes again, in his dusty slow fashion. "Ser Brynden and Ser Edmure turned up in Kings Landing today morning itself. Apparently, my goodbrother had decided to go on a tour of the Seven Kingdoms to regain his health…"

"He was ill?" asked Cersei.

"He was, your Grace. I was surprised to find him here- given how protective Lord Hoster is of his children but Edmure seems to have been insistent on meeting Lysa and Ser Brynden is a bad influence in such matters. My goodbrother has been in some trying circumstances. He…," Arryn began to explain but Cersei held up her hands. She had no desire to hear about some fishmonger's troubles. "No need to elaborate, My Lord Hand. I'm sure he is fine now."

Arryn frowned but continued in the previous vein. "Very well, Your Grace. Apparently he had been tarrying near the Mud Gate and was very surprised to find how many merchants were using Braavosi coins and…"

"Shouldn't they be using Westerosi coins?" interjected Cersei before she could stop herself. It wouldn't do to show any weakness to Arryn.

Arryn shook his white head sagely. Was he hiding his glee at her ignorance? "True, Your Grace. I had been surprised myself but Ser Edmure explained that most merchants always keep a supply of foreign money to pay off traders quickly. Braavosi trade ships rule the Narrow Sea so it's the Braavosi coins our merchants prefer."

"But gold is gold, isn't it? Isn't Lannister gold good enough for the foreigners?" Cersei snorted in irritation. As expected- what did some fool from Braavos or Myr know about civilization?

Arryn fidgeted and Cersei suppressed a grin of pure pleasure. Purest of the Andals, eh? Arryn might have a certain low cunning and ambition but in front of a Lannister of a Rock, his weaknesses were all exposed. Cersei wondered how he and the Master of Coin managed the Realm's affairs. No wonder the Treasury was in so much trouble.

"Well- put it this way, your Grace," Arryn finally began. "A dragon is worth as much as the gold in it but buying things with pure gold is not possible- so we mint coins. Braavosi merchants want business primarily in Braavosi coins, because otherwise they need to visit moneychangers who would need a cut or approach the Iron Bank..."

"So? Does your goodbrother want some Braavosi coins? He wishes to go to Braavos?"

"No, he wants the Red Keep to pay Volantene merchants in Volantene honors."

"And where will those honors come from?" queried Cersei.

"Ser Edmure said he will exchange honors for Dragons out of his own pocket."

Cersei blinked. Exchanging coins for coins? This was madness and clearly Arryn thought the same. She wondered whether Jaime could explain this but dismissed the thought out of hand; her twin's hand was the best part of him. On second thoughts, the second best. "That's all?"

"No, not really," Arryn coughed. "He wanted some tariffs to be reduced for the Riverland ports; I have no problems with those- but he has other proposals that do worry me. Ser Edmure says that the Braavosi control the flow of coins or something as such. He tried to explain it but I am sadly ignorant of these matters. It'd been a different matter if Lord…"

Cersei interrupted him. "I understand Ser Edmure's plans perfectly well, my Lord Hand." The look on the old fool's face was priceless. "But what is your opinion about Ser Edmure's plans?"

Jon Arryn shifted his weight like an old frog who'd spied a snake. _A lion_ , thought Cersei. Finally, he replied, "I would recommend against it. It's not that I don't trust my goodbrother; he's a sweet young man according to Lysa, if slightly irresponsible- but I don't put my trust in things I don't understand. I can't figure out what Ser Edmure has to gain from this. Even if some Volantene merchant is bribing him to do this, I don't see how he can profit off all this- but I don't think we should allow it. Robert's expenses…"

"Cannot be borne if we prevent young lords from interacting with foreign merchants," Cersei waved off the matter as Jon Arryn tried and failed to hide his dismay. The poor old fool, Cersei thought savagely. "Tell Ser Edmure that I approve of his requests and make the appropriate arrangements. And please do tell me what the Small Council has to say about helping the Westerlands rebuild its fleets. We can hardly allow the insult to remain as it is…"


	5. The Drains of Casterly Rock

**TYRION**

 **289 AC**

Rising more than two thousand feet high and extending almost two leagues from west to east, Casterly Rock, the ancient seat of house Lannister, was no ordinary castle. Crowned it may have been with innumerable towers and turrets and watchtowers, with stone walls and oaken gates and iron portcullises guarding every tiny means of egress, but the Rock itself was far more- a testament to the Westerlands itself cementing the rule of House Lannister upon the lands. Never taken by storm or siege throughout its history, it had daunted even the dragonlords when they first came to the continent. Legends said that Visenya Targaryen, upon seeing it, had thanked the gods that King Loren had ridden forth to face her brother-husband on the Field of Fire- for if he had drawn his forces into the Rock, not even dragonfire could've cast he Lannisters out of the West.

And yet all this meant nothing to a young lad of House Lannister who has presently standing out the doors to the Lord's rooms. Dressed in drab brown clothes, with tousled, unkempt hair, none could say there was much remarkable about the boy- except for one single thing.

The boy was a dwarf. And he had been called yet again to answer for this most heinous sin.

After more than half an hour of standing impatiently & stamping his feet, the door finally cracked upon and an old, genial face peeked out of it.

"Tyrion!" greeted Ser Kevan happily when he had gotten over the surprise of seeing his nephew at such a late hour. "Come in! Come in! How long were you standing out there? Why didn't you knock?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to answer but a string toneless voice cut him off. "He was too early for his audience, Kevan," answered Lord Tywin without taking his eyes off the parchment he was reading. "Tyrion should learn to respect everyone's time- including his own."

"The passages can be cold in winter," Kevan replied as he helped Tyrion climb onto a chair and laid a blanket upon his knees. "He could've at least sat inside with us."

"And eavesdropped upon our conversations?" Lord Tywin raised a grey eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that I had two military advisors. Goodnight, Kevan."

"But, my Lord…"

Tywin held up his hand. "It has been a long night, Kevan. I bid you goodnight."

Kevan fell silent. His eyes met Tyrion's and he shrugged helplessly before turning on his heels and marching out.

Tywin waited until the door was closed. Then he leaned back on his chair- hard carved ironwood with no cushions or pillows. It had been made in Lannisport- like most of the things Tyrion could see in that little room. Casterly Rock may have been filled with Myrish carpets, Pentoshi & Novroshi tapestries, bolts of golden silk from far Yi Ti and the wondrous crystal chandeliers bought at great expense from Qohor by the intrepid merchants of Braavos, even carved statues of exotic whalebone from distant Ib- but in Lord Tywin's room, there were none of those. Everything in the room was either gold or grey- a product from the mines and forges and workshops of Lannisport.

For some time, the two were silent- Tyrion trying not to fidget under his Lord father's steely stare.

"Do you know why you are here?" asked Lord Tywin.

 _Because the fat septa tells tales_. Tyrion replied reluctantly, "I was trying to see the knights preparing to set sail."

"And…?" Tywin's stare seemed to intensify. Tyrion wondered if his eyes would contract into nothing one of these days but he was too wise to say that aloud.

"You had told me to remain within the drains while the lords were here."

"Precisely, the great Lords of the Reach and the West are all here. Thank the gods the King is at the Banefort. He wouldn't have looked upon this kindly."

 _Thank the gods?_ Tyrion snorted inwardly. _You have been smarting over the insult all these weeks, a child can read it on your face_. "I understand, my Lord. I apologize for any slight I may have given." _Bollocks!_

Tywin's lips thinned. For a second, Tyrion wondered whether they'd turned upward in a smirk but he put that thought out of his mind in an instant. Lord Tywin Lannister never smiled. That was known.

Lord Tywin said, "Apologies are cold comfort. You had been told to stay in the sewers until the present crisis was past. Not only are the drains your responsibility, there are enough chambers within them where a person could live comfortably for weeks on the end. There are duties..."

"A state of affairs I plan to out an end to," snapped Tyrion. He had seen men die even as a child; but the dark, damp cavernous drains of Casterly Rock were a place where men withered before dying- and those were deaths no man deserved. Save one. "You do not know the utter despondency that comes upon someone who hasn't seen the sun for a month. I have seen grown men weeping when…"

"As I've said," Lord Tywin repeated himself calmly, silencing Tyrion more effectively than a blow would've. "We all have duties that have to be fulfilled to the fullest extent of our abilities."

"The drains have never run better," Tyrion began to mutter but Lord Tywin paid no attention to him.

"The host below our walls are the men who will give our answer to the Ironborn. The lord and knights have travelled far and long to get here. They do not need the interference of a petulant child in these trying times."

 _I was just looking at them while they were eating in the hall; no one even saw me_ , thought Tyrion. He knew Lord Tywin hated excuses.

"I won't do it again, my Lord," muttered Tyrion weakly. Best to get this over with. The longer he sat in that hard, cold room with his Lord father, the more comforting his damp pallet in the tiny room twenty five hundred feet below them seemed.

"Nor could you," stated Lord Tywin. "The hosts leave a day hence."

Tyrion almost jumped in surprise. "But I thought we had no warships left?"

"There are none," remarked Lord Tywin. "We will be using skiffs and cogs to transport our hosts to the Iron isles."

"They would be sitting ducks for the Iron Fleet."

"I see you have not been paying attention to the news," Lord Tywin steepled his fingers under his chin. "Lord Stannis Baratheon broke the Iron fleet not three days ago at Fair Isle."

Tyrion barely suppressed a gasp of admiration. He had heard of Storm's End; every man and woman in Westeros had. But whatever be Stannis' virtues as a commander, he'd never shown any skill in open battle. Dragonstone had been virtually deserted when he had taken it during the rebellion. To face off against the Iron fleet and Victarion Greyjoy and break them? "How many did we lose?" He asked, his voice rising in childish excitement.

"Very few. Practically none, according to your uncle," observed Lord Tywin. "It seems Lord Stannis has learned to handle his responsibilities well."

 _You must be very impressed, father. That's the highest praise you can ever give, can't you?,_ thought Tyrion. "Will you be part of the assault on the Iron islands as well, my Lord?" Would make a nice change; maybe he could walk in the halls of Casterly Rock in peace then. Not having to smell rotting excrement and stinking piss all day in the sewers would be good for his health.

"I haven't decided yet, Tyrion," answered his father. _Robert declining to stay at Casterly Rock must've hurt like a bitch_ , thought Tyrion viciously. "My presence there seems hardly necessary." _Of course not! With men like Lord Stark and Lord Tarly and Ser Barristan around, it would be hard for you to be chief mummer._ "I might have had to lead the forces in person but fortunately, the Tully boy was found. The Riverlords are now committed to the fullest extent." _So you think your presence on the battlefield is worth ten thousand men or something?_ "It seems I might find it necessary for you to go to King's Landing." _Yeah- because the West will fall if you go, won…_ "WHAT?"

The last had been shouted so loud that even Lord Tywin was speechless for an instant.

Tyrion stammered in shock, "But…but the drains. You said. The drains…"

"You have been working on those drains for the past three years, Tyrion," replied his father coldly. "I feel it is time you started contributing to the family in earnest."

 _The drains have never run better._ "Not fifteen minutes ago, you were accusing me of disgracing the family name by simply bringing my dwarfish self near the great Lords of the West!" snapped Tyrion, his voice rising slightly in outrage.

"For every job, Tyrion, the artisan has the right tool." Lord Tywin's eyes were a pale green flecked with gold, as luminous as they were merciless. "Your sister has been recently ordered the Hand to reduce tariffs within the Seven Kingdoms. That would be understandable, even appreciable- but she has also been dealing with Volantene merchants as well."

 _Sweet Cersei? Bother her pretty head with such common matters?_ Tyrion could hardly believe his ears. "Isn't that a matter for the Hand?"

"Jon Arryn is a good Lord but no merchant; the Arryns have always scoffed at such plebeian matters," grimaced Lord Tywin. _No doubt that he is thinking of grandfather_. "There is nothing particularly egregious though. A few more crates of spices won't harm the accounts more than all the foolish tourneys I've been hearing about. Robert's absence has helped the Treasury greatly despite the war. If only Cersei would stop wasting gold on Myrish and Qartheen…"

"The Crown borrows from us, father," Tyrion reminded him.

"Gold in hand is gold you can spend. You can't make gold out of thin air, Tyrion." He sighed irritably. "I wish the Court understood that. Instead the Realm is at the mercy of a spendthrift King, his foster father, and their tools!"

"And do you have no tools of your own at Court?"

Lord Tywin's eyes grew even colder- as hard as it was for Tyrion to believe it. "Our friends at Court have duties more suited to them."

"Meaning whoever they are, they know nothing of merchants or coin, do they?" grinned Tyrion flippantly.

"He knows a good deal more than you at any rate," Lord Tywin forced his reply out _. So, he had a creature at Court, did he?_ "But Cersei's actions have brought to my notice that we can do with a few more friends at Court. The ones we do have…they are adequate but can do with some private enterprise. And the gods know what the Spider gets up to."

 _Our 'friends' at Court have become my sweet sister's own creatures, have they?,_ thought Tyrion. "Why me? You've always…" He fell silent. What was he even going to say? Hated him? Avoided him?

"Because the Westerlands will need every knight they can raise for the next few years at any rate. And you, Tyrion," Lord Tywin sneered this time, "are no warrior. Thankfully for the family, you have some slight ability in numbers and some low cunning. That will be of use to you at Kings Landing."

Tyrion gnashed his teeth, uncaring of whether his Lord father saw it or how he would take it. At Kings Landing with sweet Cersei and the loudmouthed idiot she called husband. Wonderful! At least he would have Jaime close by…

"Very well, my Lord," replied Tyrion, forcing a smile onto his face, as he clambered off the chair and bowed. "I will make arrangements at once."

"For what?"

"Why- to go to Kings Landing, of course!" exclaimed Tyrion.

Lord Tywin's eyes were two needle-thin points of gold-green light in the shadows of the room. "Not until you've affixed the drains and cisterns well enough to last the next decade, Tyrion. I don't expect to see your face outside the drains for…let's say, for the next two months, shall we? Close the door as you leave."


	6. The Slave

**THE SLAVE**

 **289 AC**

The whip cracked yet again- and the slave winced as the leather lashes landed first on his back, over the curve of his right shoulder, and whipped on his chest, drawing blood.

"Useless…Useless," he heard Joreqor Iranatis mutter from where he stood, an appropriate distance from the torturer so that no random streaks of blood splashed upon the white silks he wore. "Your foolishness have distressed me far too much, fool, so much that I could hardly have the heart to dine this morning."

"Would help to lose some of that weight," grunted the slave through the pain. "You ought to thank me." In his mind's eye, he could see Iranatis' eyes bulging the way they always did when he was disturbed and the way he would twist his hands and wrists then. How his mouth- a bright red from long years of chewing sourleaf- would open and he would shriek…

"SILENCE, FILTHY SLAVE!"

The whip came down again. It was a good whip, the slave suddenly thought. Three long leather lashes, dyed black, trailed from an elaborately carved handle of Westerosi ironwood. The pommel was silver, a lion's head with garnet eyes and steel teeth. It had been given to Iranatis by Boney Pink Meldo himself for earning the most profit among his merchant captains the past three years- and the spicer took great pride in it. Took great care of it as well- or rather, ensured that the torturer took great care of it. He didn't have to fret so much, in the slave's opinion- he'd never seen a torturer as dedicated to his craft as Green Adhu.

He felt strong hands grip his hair and jerk his head backwards.

"Dead, are you?" came Iranantis' raspy voice. "I didn't pay good money for you to have you die on me on the very first voyage!" But the Spicer's voice seemed to come from far away. The Slave felt himself drifting into unconsciousness and sharply bit the inside of his own cheek. All at once, the World leapt at him like a bucking horse.

They were still at Kings Landing harbour, very near of what Bello the porter had called the Mud Gate. Well- mud there was in plenty. Black, sticky mud- with the detritus of two continents spreading everywhere, soaking into the earth. Some distance from them, a Tyroshi with a blue beard and purple-green hair wrestled a hen into a coop. To their right were four of the City guard with their gold cloaks and masked helms. Further away walked two silver-haired men- probably Lyseni- and two boys- one probably their kin and another clearly Westerosi- followed by a guard of five. And all around them rushed porters, tradesmen and carters. And then there were the peddlers whose cries augmented the din of the harbour. "Cat's Meat! Hot Wine! Bowl of Brown!" they cried. "Best Bowl of Brown in town!"

Will taste better once I'm in it, thought the slave. He had been to Kings Landing before- when Old Garraphos had been still alive. The old man had been a hard master but fair. He had the one who had first bought the slave five years ago when he was barely more than a boy, he had been the one who had taught him his letters- as well as the one who had taught him the spice trade. Then he had died and the slave had ended up in Iranatis' employ. The slave had never heard of the latter; neither had he heard of Pink Meldo for that matter but he had heard the name of the man they worked for. There were few in Pentos who hadn't.

There was another spasm of pain. Iranatis' bloated, sweaty face swam into view. "Still alive, you rat? You look angry. Want a swipe at me, rat?"

"…"

"What was that?"

"My mother told me not to be cruel to animals."

Iranatis shrieked and the whip shrieked a few seconds later. As blood dribbled down the slave's back and chest, he thought that perhaps he'd really deserved those last few strikes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the gold cloaks yawn.

"Fucking quartermaster…I paid good money for you because they told me you could read and write! Garraphos was always too soft on his slaves. You're lucky we are not in Pentos, boy. You'd have had the skin off your hide for less."

"Then it's lucky we aren't in Pentos, are we?" came a taut, loud voice from behind them. The slave turned his head and saw a tall, red headed Westerosi young man. He was dressed in battered black ringmail and steely grey greaves, and a bolt of faded red cloth was tied around his waist. An old mud and water cloak flowed behind him like water even though there seemed to be no wind. A sword with a heavy brass pommel hung at his waist, and two knives were tucked into the red waistcloth.

Iranatis looked at him in disgust, a sneer playing at his face at the newcomer's poor clothing. "And who are you, boy?" It was then the slave realized that the young man was only a little older than himself.

"No one in particular. But I couldn't help overhearing you shouting about slaves and selling," remarked the boy as if commenting on the weather. "And here I was, under the impression we didn't have any of that in Westeros."

"I'm Pentoshi, boy," sniggered Iranatis as he gestured Green Adhu forward. Clearly the sword had affected him more than he let on.

"But I was under the impression there was no slavery in Pentos as well. Or have the Braavosi decided to forgo their due?"

"Careful, boy," said the Spicer, his face suddenly hard and wary. "You may be Westerosi but I've been plying these waters for more than a decade. You see the Gold Cloaks over there? You might be good with that sword of yours- but four spears might be four more than you can handle."

"I think not," replied the boy. "They're Gold Cloaks, not Knights."

Iranatis' smirk widened. "You Westerosi! You run around with your capes and frills and favours and swords and think that makes you gods?" He stepped back and snatched the whip from a confused Adhu. The slave realized what was to come and bit in lower lip sharply. The spicer carried on, "There are no true knights, boy! I've seen far too many Westerosi knights. All steel and vows and lies. You Westerosi are like little children playing dress-up. In the Free Cities, even children learn their place!" He filled his lungs.

"GOLD CLOAKS," he yelled at the City Guards nearby, his face ablaze with triumph and rage as both the Westerosi boy and torturer Adhu looked on confused. As said Gold cloaks caught sight of their little gathering, Iranatis started again, "THIS BRAT HERE IS MY SLAVE. I BOUGHT HIM FOR TEN OF YOUR DRAGONS A WEEK AGO. TODAY HE MADE A MISTAKE IN MY ACCOUNTS. I LOST SEVEN DRAGONS TODAY BECAUSE OF HIM. SEVEN WHOLE DRAGONS. NOW HE IS BEING PUNISHED." Down came the whip- quick and sharp and bloody as a butcher's knife. Blood flew. Adhu stared on, confused. One of the Gold Cloaks yawned. Another scratched his armpit. The other two looked on bored.

The next second, Joreqor Iranatis was flying.

For one glorious minute, time seemed to slow down. The sun beat down upon them, the Gold Cloaks stared on in shock, Green Adhu's mouth was open- and two of Iranatis' teeth dropped in front of the slave.

The Westerosi boy cracked his knuckles and looked at Adhu next.

With a roar, the torturer rushed at the newcomer. But what Adhu had in malice and cruelty, he lacked in fighting skill and youth. The Westerosi boy neatly side-stepped the torturer's blind charge and delivered a round-house kick so powerful that Adhu was flung a full five feet away and came up sputtering, his mouth full of mud and dung. A second later, the torturer was down and in the land of nod.

"Hey, boy!" rang out a stentorian voice. The Gold Cloaks were rushing towards them; four men clad in golden Myrish silk and bronzed mail from the Street of Steel. All but one wore half helms with a dangling mask of fine mail. The one at their front was a balding, middle aged pig-like man with a scowl. The slave looked at the boy, fully expecting to see him drawing his sword and laying on the corrupt guards.

He controlled the well enough- but for a second, the slave saw a look of utter terror on the boy's face.

"Well, well, well." The captain of the guards looked rather like a frog, a smug frog who'd spied a tasty fly. "What do we have here? A young fool interfering with the King's commerce!" The gold Cloaks formed into position, all four at the four cardinal directions. Iranatis slowly picked himself up, and stumbled towards them. His fine, white silks were torn and muddy, and his mouth a bloody ruin. Abdu was still lying in the mud, out cold.

"Arrethh thimm!" he yelled, blood and spit spouting from the ruin of his mouth and nose. "I amth inth theervice ofth thonoured Thelmdo!"

"That's right, boy," smirked the Captain. "Can't have you interfering in Lord Helmdo's business!"

"Thelmdo!" shouted Iranatis, almost jumping up and down in his anger. By now, they'd attracted a small crowd of onlookers- most of them Westorosi from their attire, but quite a few Summer Islanders and Lyseni among them as well.

"Yes, Thelmdo, yes" nodded the Captain while trying to avoid the spit and blood being spewed into his face by the outraged Spicer. "We can't you interfering with Lord Thelmdo's business, boy!"

"Thelmdo isth thhe bestth thapthain inth thervice of Thillyro Thopatith! Thillyro Thopatith thimselth!"

"They are Westerosi," the slave heard himself shouting. "They probably think he's some sort of pineapple." _Him and his big mouth_ , he cursed himself as soon as the words were out. Why was he even drawing more trouble onto himself?

"As the poor boy here said," shouted the Westerosi boy above the growing din. "These foreigners are nothing to us. There are no slaves in Westeros according to the laws of Gods and Men. Why should we honest Westerosi even allow such violations of the King's justice in the very heart of our City, Captain Janos?"

The captain seemed speechless to the boy's words but Iranatis answered for him. "Whe ath nothth Wesththerothi! Arrethh thimm!"

"But we are all in Westeros now. In the very shadow of the Red Keep, in fact," countered the boy. "If this isn't where Westerosi law should be held then where else? Slavery is illegal in Pentos as well."

"Silence, boy!" spat one of the other guards, "Only the City Guard can keep the Peace in Kings Landing."

"It is every man's duty to keep the Peace. And I am a Knight," replied the boy politely, his eyes narrowing with anger for the first time in the evening. "A bit of respect would go a long way here."

"Pitthh onth Wesththerothi knigthths!" shrieked Iranatis, almost apoplectic with rage. "Arrethh thimm!"

"Drop your arms, boy," said Captain Janos as he lowered his spear and gestured at his companions to do so himself. "Or it won't be very wise of you."

By now, the tension on the boy's face was clearly visible. He crouched slightly and spoke, "And if I do? Will I get an audience with the Master of Laws?"

Janos smirked, the smirk of a man utterly at peace with himself, "Of course. In due course, I mean. Can't have someone telling tales about slavery in Westeros and all that to great Lords who have important things to do, can we?"

"I see," observed the boy as his hands started dropping to his waist. The gathering seemed to grow silent. A drop of sweat started forming on Janos' forehead. Even Iranatis had fallen silent.

"No wonder you Westerosi are such savages. I've seen enough of these brawls today to last me the rest of my life." a silvery voice penetrated the evening wind. There was a commotion to their right, and presently five hulking guards in Qohori Plate over mirror armour shouldered into the centre. After them came the Lyseni boy he'd seen earlier- but now he realized that it had been actually a girl dressed as one, though in the fine style preferred by many Lyseni. A green doublet slashed with yellow with red breeches of velvet and lavender coloured tights covered her. A light blue silk cloak was pinned at her shoulder. She was still fairly young, and her silver-blonde hair and deep purple eyes made her look even younger but her proud posture and statuesque bearing gave her a gravitas the slave had seen in few.

"And who be you?" spat Janos as he, and his guards, openly ogled at the girl- but it was what Iranatis was doing that mystified the slave.

The spicer was on his knees, mouthing pleasantries barely audible to any. The girl seemed to have noticed as well as the imperious look on her face seemed to grow even more aloof. She haughtily announced, to the Gold Cloaks "This man you have been accosting, guard, is Ser Edmure of House Tully, goodbrother to the Hand himself."

"Yeah," snorted one of the guards. "And I'm the Queen's lover!"

"Maybe you can get one once you're in the Black Cells," replied the girl, her voice lilting in irritation. "Be gone from here or you Westerosi will be taught some proper manners."

"Janos Slynt. " The boy seemed to have found his voice again. "Obey the Lady or I, Ser Edmure Tully, will demand an answer from you with steel," he declared as he drew his sword.

If the Captain had needed any more arguments, the prospect of a duel with a Knight, no matter how green, and the sight of the five hulking sworn shields who towered above even the tallest in the vicinity seemed to have convinced him out of them. He shouldered his spear and announced at large, "All right, boys! Play's over! Leave these foreigners to their crimes and curses! Accursed slavers, all of them!" Within a short time and helped along with generous whacks from the blunt ends of their spears, the Gold Cloaks had cleared the area before vanishing themselves.

The girl let out a heavy breath before turning to the Westerosi. She hissed in anger, "Have you taken leave of your senses, Ser Knight? Those Gold Cloaks would've taken you to the bottom of the Blackwater, not the Black Cells."

"Aye, aye. I know, woman, I know," sighed the knight as he sheathed his sword. "But you must've heard what he was…"

"But we are not Westerosi savages, Ser Knight," the girl's voice cut in like tart vinegar. "My grand uncle is Volantene and many of his ships ply men and women all across the Summer Sea. But that didn't stop you from grinning like a monkey when you agreed to take my father's gold this afternoon!"

"That's completely different. There are no slaves on the Narrow Sea."

The girl snorted and pointed at the slave, "Then what is he?" And to that, the young knight had no answer.

A final snort of derision and the girl turned on her heels and marched up to where Iranatis was still kneeling in the mud, blood and spit freely flowing and mixing from the ruin of his nose and mouth. "You," she snapped at him, "How much for the slave?"

Iranatis mewled in fear but a trained ear could, with difficulty, discern the words _'For you, my Lady Paenymion, a mere dragon.'_

The girl snorted again, reached into a purse hanging at her waist and drew out a handful of dragons before throwing it on the ground in front of the Spicer. "Don't spend it all on stuffing yourself!"

"This slave if he survives his wounds, that is," she gritted her teeth as she faced the Knight again, "is my gift to you. Don't expect any more gifts from me though. If you wish to be more than a Westerosi barbarian then you should learn to use something other than your sword while in civilized company."

Saying so, she strode off with her guards in tow. Iranatis hurriedly gathered the dragons and scurried off as fast as he could, uncaring of what happened to the still unconscious Adhu. The young knight shook his head and faced the slave.

"My name is Edmure Tully," he extended a hand. "What's yours?"

His name? He had one? Yes, he did, didn't he? Long years ago, when he lived in a small hut in the hills of Andalos with his mother and father and two sisters?

"Tiro," he said, his tongue rasping over that long unused word. "My name is Tiro."


	7. Eel Alley

**DAVOS**

 **290 AC**

Barely more than a five cubits in width, Eel Alley began at the junction of River Row and Wicker's Alley. It looped about the bottom of Aegon's High Hill, meandering through the slums and shanties that covered most of King's Landing, before disappearing as the mouth of river into several small unnamed pathways, each barely big enough for two horses to pass side by side. One of these was especially famed among certain classes of Kings Landing as the quickest way for the sufficiently wary- and armed- individual to travel from the River Gate, as it was named on the maps, or the Mud Gate, as it was commonly called, to the Red Keep itself.

Such a traveller was now hurrying along the trail on foot. He was clad- like so many walking alongside him- in a long, weather-beaten, mud-stained Sailor's cloak which may have been black in colour several years ago. Nothing was visible of his raiment though, save his boots- and his boots were sturdy and tough, but hardly worth the trouble of stealing- and any thief with more than a day of experience could see that the man would be trouble. His step was firm but careful, and he held his body like a whip.

"Ser Knight," called out Salladhor Saan, from his seat in the dark hollow of a doorway. "Come! Stop slinking about like a Sorrowful Man! Come, sit by my side and enjoy the light!"

There was nought for argument then. Davos glanced quickly to both sides; no one in sight- but in Kings Landing, the stones had ears. "What are you doing here?" whispered Davos furiously to his old friend.

"Enjoying the light?"

"We must speak in more private quarters. There's an inn nearby."

"And it is, most likely, packed with the spies of your sweet Queen and Lord eunuch," complained Salladhor. "Your plan is no good, my friend. And Salladhor Saan is too fond of his fleets and wives and grapes to enter an inn in Kings Landing under his own will."

"You have no wives and only two ships."

"Salladhor Saan has many dreams and many grapes. Here, have some." He produced and dangled a bunch in front of Davos.

Davos shrugged and took the fruit from his friend. The grapes were rich, ripe; bursting in his mouth like little pockets of scented wine. An urchin, barely older than his youngest, was running nearby. Salladhor Saan popped another grape in his mouth.

"Your Lord did well, better than Salladhor Saan imagined," he said. "I doubted that he could outfight the Iron Captain."

"Stannis has no equal in the Realm," said Davos. _Let others doubt if they wished- even the King himself. Davos Seaworth knew the truth._

Salladhor Saan stretched and yawned. "Far be it for me to doubt the prowess of your Lord, Ser Knight. But I've heard nothing this past year save stories about your Ironborn. I used to hear a fair few earlier as well."

"And what are the new tales you've heard?" asked Davos _. Finally he comes to what I had called him to talk about…_

"The same old ones," shrugged the pirate. "Balon Greyjoy hasn't been seen outside his Castle the past few months. Probably mourning his lost children. How my heart aches for the poor man."

 _Balon? Mourn his sons?_ Davos didn't think so. He had heard tales about the Lord of Pyke, even seen the man at a distance. Balon was Stannis without any of the latter's virtues and all of his vices. It was far more likely the Ironborn Lord had just been smarting over his defeat.

He had been with Stannis throughout the campaign. The desperate battle at Fair Isle when the decks had been slippery with blood and shit and the fire had leapt from ship to ship like a million burning brands. The assault on Great Wyk- castle after castle, siege after desperate siege, assault after bloody assault. The cries and shouts and screams as Robert had given the word and the lords and knights of Westeros had charged into the breach- Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island at their head, along with Thoros of Myr with his ridiculous flaming sword. Davos had remained on the ships at the foot of the cliffs; Stannis had been worried that there were secret grottoes from where an intrepid Ironborn captain- maybe Balon himself- would escape but their precautions had been unnecessary. Balon and stayed, Balon had fought, and Balon had lost.

The miserable vermin.

"What about his brothers?" Stannis was livid when Robert had announced the pardons. _His head should've rolled,_ he'd thundered that day. _All their heads should've rolled_. There had been scarcely a single unspoiled village from Banefort to Old Oak- and Stannis had demanded an answer for every murdered man, each raped woman, every enslaved child, every slaughtered cow, every gutted pig. Robert, as was his wont with his younger brother, had refused.

Salladhor Saan shrugged. "For the Iron Captain, you are the Knight and know more than my poor self. They say the drunkard has not been the same. After defeat, sane and wise men seek comfort between the soft thighs of women. Sane fools find solace among gods and incense and the cheeks of little boys. Our drunkard was both insane as well as foolish. I suspect he really believes in his drowning god."

"The Drowned God."

"All gods are the same, my friend. Same as this grape." He held up a plump purple one and popped it into his mouth. "Here today, one tomorrow. But it is the last one you ought to be worried about. The Crow's Eye."

Euron Greyjoy. Little was known of him, even among the garrulous and talkative ports that dotted the Step stones. And what little was known was enough to make hardened men wish to know nothing. He had been the one responsible for planning the attack on Lannisport though it had been Victarion who'd led the assault. He'd vanished after the first night though; if his longship had been seen among those at Seagard or the Whispering Sound or Fair Isle, Davos knew not.

"He did not kneel before Robert, I know that."

"Everyone in the Iron Isles knows that. The Crow's eye did not kneel. The Ironborn call him undefeated. Salladhor Saan calls him craven." For the first time, the indifferent smile on the silver-haired Lyseni vanished to be replaced with a look of utter revulsion. "The Crow's Eye is a dog and a mad dog."

Davos was taken aback at the sudden anger within his friend. He had not known Salladhor Saan to feel so strongly about pirates- given that he was a pirate himself. "Why? Has he done something?" _Something that would even shock a lowborn villain like yourself?_ , thought Davos _._

His friend replied slowly, "I have heard stories, Davos. But I know nothing, nothing that I can tell in front of you without risking a lie. Know this- the Crow's Eye is not a man to cross. Not for a smuggler. Not for another pirate. Not for a knight. Maybe not even for a Westerosi lord. I wish I'd never agreed to keep an ear open for you, "he rued.

Another grape, one of the last, flew into his throat. "Your little war has pleased the Volantenes to no end. They've been streaming through the Stepstones in great numbers. Why shouldn't they? The Ironborn had swept those islands clean. And your lord Stannis swept the Ironborn clean. Offer him my thanks, Ser Knight. My voyages have rarely been so peaceful and fruitful as now."

"You've taken up some of the Crow's Eye's slack then?" grumbled Davos.

"A man has to eat. Better a well-fed man than a starving crow," said Salladhor Saan, massaging his stomach. "I took a small galley not a week off the coast of the Plains of Pentos, near the North end of Sea of Myr. Bolts of Myrish silks, cunningly fashioned crossbows that can throw a bolt four hundred yards and more, condensed firemilk- flaming red and orange and a panacea for all ailments. I can spare a pot or two if you needed some."

"I serve the Master of Ships," grumbled Davos. "Don't tell me what you get up to."

"In Essos, my friend. And there is an entire sea between there and here," laughed the pirate.

Davos gritted his teeth. _Seven help me, I've start to copy Stannis_. "I don't think Lord Stannis will find it funny if the Volantenes come to him crying about lost cargo."

"Not the Volantenes, my friend!" exclaimed Salladhor Saan in shock. "My soft heart cannot bear the thought of taking bread from the mouths of those poor young merchants trying to break into the stranglehold Braavos and Pentos have on the Narrow Sea. I…"

"You are an old scoundrel, Salladhor," laughed Davos, slapping his thighs, "and I know all your tricks. Where did your galley come from?"

Salladhor grinned. "It was a Pentoshi plying to and fro Myr. Though if a Braavosi ship had been seen over the horizon, they'd have run Tyroshi colours. The rowers were all slaves, you see."

"A Pentoshi carrying crossbows?" Davos' eyebrows rose. "Won't the Braavosi take offence?" Nearly a hundred years ago, there had war between the two great Free Cities. For nearly a decade it had raged, and hundreds of ships and tens of thousands of men had gone below the waves before the Braavosi had finally overcome the mercenary armies of Pentos. The merchant princes had bowed their heads, and swore off slavery, and disbanded their armies- but not a month had passed before they had returned to their old vices. The slaves were now called indentured servants and the army now a twenty-thousand strong City guard, but only a fool would consider Pentos an easy mark…

"As long as the letters of the treaties are maintained? Why should they?" remarked the pirate carelessly. "Evils stir in the far east, my friend. I've heard tales of a new Khal on the grass Sea who leads two hundred thousand men!"

Davos affixed his friend with a stare like iron. "The Pentoshi aren't people to take alarm for demons and barbarians five thousand miles away."

Salladhor Saan stroked his beard. "True, my friend. You speak the truth. It is all these new Volantenes they're wary of."

"Why? Volantene ships have been seen on the Narrow Sea for thousands of years now," asked Davos.

Salladhor Saan smiled. "Nay, my friend. Not as many as you think. Braavosi money lenders and Braavosi merchants and Braavosi money-changers have ruled the Narrow Sea since the Century of Blood. The Pentoshi are but their servants, and what the Volantene have plied by sea, the Pentoshi ply by land. The risks of braving the Stepstones, coming to Westeros, accepting Westerosi coin from strange Westerosi merchants and loans from Braavosi who lose their minds when they spy a single slave in your holds? No, no, my friend. Yes, there are great merchant houses in Volantis who think nothing of a Westerosi voyage- but there are also dozens, hundreds of poor Volantenes who have no more ships than I have. A voyage across the fires of Valyria and the cutthroats of the Basilisk Isles is far more comforting than the sight of an unwashed Braavosi moneylender among the rogues of Kings Landing."

"But the Three Daughters have long traded here as well and they're no friends of the Sealords," pondered Davos.

"True enough. But the Three Daughters have been close to the Iron Throne for long; wasn't one of your Queens Lyseni herself? Volantis has always looked east. And why shouldn't it? It can raise armies the Seven Kingdoms would struggle to equal. Its farm and orchards…Oh, my friend Davos, the fragrance! You can smell the perfume from a hundred miles away at sea."

"You can smell the blood too," grunted Davos _. Volantis. First-born daughter of Valyria. Volantis. Where the old blood ran deep and true. Fire and Blood. Still across all these centuries, fire and blood…_

"Aye that is true, Ser Knight. But Volantis is, after all, the daughter of Valyria and Essos, not Westeros, was where the old Dragonlords had reigned. No more though. There have been great numbers of slaves coming into Slaver's Bay these past few years and Paenymion has little stake there. If he doesn't lose the next election, he will lose the one after that. And when he does…"

"The Tigers will return," sighed Davos _. And Volantis would march to war_ , went unsaid between the two old friends.


	8. The Pinkmaiden Agricultural Revolution

**YOHN**

 **290 AC**

"Well?" demanded Ser Yohn Piper impatiently as Jacks poked around in the mud. "What do you think?"

"S'not bad," said Jacks, picking up a handful of the rich red-brown earth and letting it dribble through his fingers. "S'not bad at all, Shir. But s'whe gets s'more millet s'when s'it sh'ummer, Shir! A's trust s'no new-fangled witchery, A's shay!"

"No!" broke in Marq vehemently. A bit too vehemently judging by how sharply Lord Clement looked at him. "Jacks, I remember my Lord father carrying me on his horse through this very field last spring as well. I clearly remember it was fallow then! Well? Wasn't it, Yohn? You must remember. Does it look fallow now?"

Eighteen years old and the nephew of the Lord of the House, Ser Yohn of House Piper scratched his sandy blonde locks. "You're right, Marq. The smallfolk had to leave this field fallow for four months every time they planted a crop. Isn't that right, Lord Clement?"

"Very true, Yohn" observed the Lord." He bent down to run his fingers through the dirt himself. "I don't see why you shouldn't continue with what you've been told, Jacks."

The farmer stroked the grey wisps of hair on his chin, "A's s'have no problems s'with s'he young lords' plans, Lord Shir. S'but winter's coming s'all the s'while ash the s'Northies tell."

Marq groaned. "It's barely even summer, Jacks! And this spring doesn't look like it'll be ending soon at any rate!"

"Marq is right, Jacks." Ser Clement stood up and dusted his hands on his breeches. _By the gods, old and new, he's started acting like Marq now_ , groaned Yohn internally. "And the Citadel will send us a raven by autumn. I don't see why we can't carry on Lord Edmure's plans."

The Lord of House Piper had been livid when he'd returned from the wars and found his son playing lord- going to all the villages under Pinkmaiden one by one and reading out huge lists given to him by his friend, Edmure Tully. Of course, he'd been pleased to see the rebuilt levees and embankments- but that was expected of any Piper lord. He'd been even more pleased to see how Clement had put the smallfolk to work after planting season was over, getting them to plant fruit and shade-bearing trees around the lands and ensuring that livestock- the few who had survived the winter- and young children didn't strip them bare at first opportunity. He'd also got the Maester to make a device he called the 'Persian wheel' which harnessed the power of cattle to lift water great heights.

But all that had been merely side projects to what Marq had been really up to.

The heir to Pinkmaiden had forced the smallfolk to divide all the fields up into four different types of produce- Wheat in the first field, clover or ryegrass, depending on whatever he found convenient, in the second, millets in the third and, in the fourth, turnips. Each field was rotated into a different crop nearly every few months and each field he'd made the smallfolk ring with fences of living shrubs and bushes. Near the Keep itself, he and the Maester were clearing space for an apothecary shrubbery. And that wasn't all. He'd made the smallfolk separate all their cattle into three groups. The largest beasts for their age went into the first, and then the next largest and finally the smallest- and then Marq had commanded them, on pain of punishment if necessary, that not a single animal from the first group was to be slaughtered under any circumstance.

And he'd been up to such tricks for the better part of a year- less than two months of which he had actually spent in his own Keep.

At first, Yohn had feared that Lord Clement would whip the hide off Marq. Even Marq had looked terrified at the prospect, barely able to string two words together when his father had demanded answers of him for why he had been ruining their farms and harassing the smallfolk. But then they had seen the fruits of Marq's labour.

The calves and heifers sired by the cattle in Marq's first batch were at least half as large again as those in the third; Marq insisted that keeping them in sheds and feeding them clover would ensure that they grew even larger. How he knew all this; he didn't- Edmure Tully did. On fields where they had got a single crop of millet a year, they now got two- and turnips. On fields where they'd got a single crop of wheat each year, they'd got a crop of wheat, of millet, and two of turnips. And on their best fields where they'd sown wheat twice a year, Marq may as well have sown seeds of living gold. Half the smallfolk went about singing his praises. Another fourth were talking of him as the second coming of the Greenhand. Those few who didn't- like old Jacks- were changing their minds fast for obvious reasons.

"Like it or not, Jacks, you have to sick to what I've said" snarled Marq savagely. "I've heard Lucas and Lord Tytos have been taking a great interest in what we & Acorn Hall & Wayfarer's Rest have been doing. And if Lord Tytos starts listening to Edmure's ideas, Lord Jonos won't be far back. And then Fairmarket will pay even less than it already does. What will you eat then?"

"That's enough, Marq!" Lord Clement put a think hand on his son's shoulder, a sad look on his face. "I'm sure Jacks will do what's best for him. Won't you, Jacks?"

"S'Right, Shir," replied Jacks in a daze. Marq's words seemed to have shocked him into tongue-tied fear. He saluted them once, and stumbled off- probably to get more turnips.

"They'll be calling us House Turnip before long…" Yohn muttered when a disturbing thought struck him. "Marq, you forget that what you've said is of great concern. We've always got good money for produce in spring. But now with all the grain we and our neighbours are sending up the Red Fork, I don't see how we will earn more than last time."

"I've had Lord Jason write me that his son's bulls are now big and strong enough to fight off the Mountain," observed Lord Clement thoughtfully. "Then again, Seagard's cattle were always known for their bulk; probably the sea and the cold at work. The man could never stop boasting about everything, even as a child…but when he starts sending meat and beasts down the Green Fork, our herds will be of no use. And I don't expect the Blackwoods to take Lord Jason's actions lying down."

Marq dismissed his father's concerns with a shrug. "I just did what Edmure…"

"Lord Edmure, son. He's the next liege Lord of the land, after all."

"I just did what Lord Edmure told me. He'd promised that our yields will double- and they've more than doubled. Should we try using our crops to attract more smallfolk to our lands? Edmure had suggested that- and there are woods and clearings enough to our east and north to hold a hundred thousand men."

Yohn frowned in thought. "Do you remember, Lord Uncle, all the smallfolk we'd seen fleeing the shores during the rebellion? What if we ask Lord Tywin to send them towards our lands?"

"That would be a nightmare," said Lord Clement sharply. "Tywin Lannister is not a man to cross and he won't like us stealing his smallfolk. Casterly Rock will think of something though, I am sure of it. A fair or a tourney would bring back normalcy to the land."

"Then would Lord Tywin appreciate an offer to sell him grain?" suggested Yohn.

"Edmure had suggested that we try to divert any extra grain we have to Wendish town and Sherrer. He's made up his mind to make some changes and that would need extra men. If even a tenth of the smallfolk from the upper reaches of the Red Fork settle around Mummer's Ford…"

"Then Lady Sattler and the Red Ox of Treppindale will come for my throat," laughed Lord Clement. "Not to speak of the Ser Fairdyme and Lord Kevan Bellpiper and Ser Hoarsmith."

"If not grain, we can offer them part of the taxes from our own holdings," wondered Yohn but his uncle shot that down.

"I don't think they will accept that, Yohn. People…When it comes to land or women, people can be very possessive."

"Lady Sattler sounds like a woman," Marq grinned but fell silent when his father flashed a look of annoyance at him.

"Lady Sattler is two-and-forty, has three daughters and two twin sons who will be coming of age in three years," he told his son in a severe tone- but Yohn noticed that the Lord had just given Marq ammunition- three pieces whole- for his next ribald joke.

"Lord Clement," he asked before Marq could open his mouth. "A knightly house with five possible heirs won't be…the most prosperous of houses, would it?"

Lord Clement nodded his head gravely. "Aerys' last few years were no good for the Riverlands. I knew Jon Sattler. A good man. I'd fought beside him at the Stony Sept. Lady Sattler has done well for her children but three marriages to think of and two boys, twins at that." He sighed. "Lord Kevan has a baby girl and a boy. The Red Ox has two grandsons and a niece. Willem is still barely twenty but he's almost penniless…"

"What if they are given positions?"

"It's not that simple, Yohn. There have been few enough castles built under Robert & Aerys. Positions don't come from thin air; they have to earned, respected. You won't give the responsibility of being Castellan of your Keep to anyone, would you?"

Marq piped up, "Father, Edmure has rented a barn from the Mootons at Maidenpool. One of Lord Mooton's young boys keeps an eye on the place for him but he was speaking of hiring a few proper shields. Would it do to approach Ser Willem or any of the knights you mentioned?"

"If Lord Edmure offers, I see no reason why he wouldn't accept. A barn, you said? And from the Mootons?"

"He buys a lot of our wool and the Ryger's flax."

"Merchant business, hmm…" snorted Yohn. "What nonsense! If Lord Edmure runs around with traders and merchantmen, I doubt he will be wining many tourneys in the future."

Lord Clement ignored his nephew's words but a look of mild consternation was on his face. "Who does he sell all that to? The Mootons?"

"Some Volantene family called Pennytree, if I recall correctly. Lord Mooton weaves the cloth for him, he sells it to the Pennytrees, they dye the cloth, sell it back to him, and he sends it down the Kingsroad."

Yohn whistled. "Pentoshi cheesemongers can talk the hind legs off a donkey. And they don't sell cheese half as well as they sell cloth. I hope he has as much brains as he has balls, Lord Uncle!"

"I don't see why we ought to judge him on this. Haggling with cheesemongers isn't something I'd approve off- but doubtless, Lord Edmure has his reasons," Lord Clement shrugged.

Marq's face was red as a pumpkin now, "I trusted Edmure with his farms and now even an idiot like Jacks can get four crops an year. Whatever Ed's trying to do, I'm fine with them."

"Marq," asked Yohn suddenly. "Lord Hoster doesn't know about what you and Lord Edmure have been doing in the farms, does he?"

His cousin's embarrassed silence was answer enough.

Lord Clement sighed heavily when he saw Marq staring down at his boots. "Then Lord Hoster is probably worrying himself silly in his Solar right now, wondering whether half his lords have gone insane pottering around turnips and bulls. Maybe I ought to ride to Riverrun tomorrow; should pay my respects to lord Hoster. Marq, send a raven to Lord Lefford and see if he would buy some of your grain. "


	9. The Battle of Lizard Point

**DAVOS**

 **290 AC**

"SIX HUNDRED PACES! The shout tore through the warm, muggy air.

The marines sprang into action. Rapidly and quietly, they started to organize themselves into small five-man units, each commanded by a veteran of at least ten such skirmishes. Cabin boys ran all around, passing stacks of arrows to each group; when the ships closed, vast swarms will rain down onto the pirates' crowded decks. A group of deck hands were rushing about as well, circulating skins of water and splashing more than half of it on the deck.

 _Stannis will surely have words with them when this is over_.

The man himself was standing at the prow of the vessel, a copper Myrish glass intricately decorated with imagery of rearing stags and storm-laden skies affixed to his eyes. He nodded to Davos as the former smuggler took his place by his side. "Looks like they mean to take us head to head," he grimaced.

"A few good volleys would see them off," Davos assured him. He had seen many pirates in his day; this bunch were nothing more than would-be highwaymen trying their luck at sea. Nevertheless, he still felt his hand steal to the bag around his neck where he kept his lucky knucklebones. A bad pirate was still a pirate.

"I don't suppose your Lyseni friend would be among them?"

"I don't think so, my Lord. These pirates look Myrish" _He was the one who told us where to strike after all._

Stannis' grimace deepened. "When I get my hands on your friend, I'll have him hung from the Mud Gate. All those who break the law must pay. No matter how they justify themselves."

The ships were now less than a half a mile apart, the distance between them closing with every beat of the stroke-master's drum. Davos could hear every beat of his heart now. By his side, Stannis was grinding this teeth into dust. The rhythmic booming of the drum below them seemed to take on a mystic nature, the grunts of the leather and the grunt of the rowers flowing & melding into one as if the ship itself was no material construct, but a living animal.

At three hundred paces, the pirates let off an ill-timed volley that fell far short. _Amateurs_ , thought Davos fiercely, _the wind aids us, not you_. He glanced rapidly to the left and right; the line of battle was intact. Stannis put away his eyeglass.

Fifty and Two hundred. Another cloud arose, bloomed, descended and vanished under the waves. One of the boys started sobbing. The wind ebbed for a second before tearing at Davos' hair again.

Ten and Two hundred. Most arrows landed short but a few bounced off the hull. One of the men started screaming, weeping for the Mother to have mercy, until Davos barked at his friends to throw him into the hold. Stannis picked at his teeth with a nail.

Thirty and hundred. The wind dropped again for an instant. A hundred arrows from four pirate ships- two longships, a 40-oar galley and a fishing skiff- buried themselves into the wooden hull. A hundred more landed on the deck. Two men went down where they stood. One was pierced at the shoulder, and fell down screaming obscenities and prayers. Most raised their shields and whispered prayers to the Seven. Davos scrambled for cover and grasped at his knucklebones. Stannis drew his longsword.

Ten and hundred. "Stop cowering, Ser Davos," the Lord of Dragonstone snapped suddenly, "and draw your sword." He lifted his hand into the air and paused, judging the rise and fall of the Wargalley's bow. Another cloud of arrows flew at them from the longships; a dozen or so buried themselves in the planking, most fell short. One buried itself into the deck not two paces from Stannis' left foot.

The wind fell. Eighty paces. And Stannis' arm flashed down.

The crew of the skiff to their front-starboard was practically wiped out to a man at the first volley itself. The two longships to their port was struck by a scorpion bolt, fired from one of the five they had on board; it went down with all hands in the twinkling of an eye. The galley directly to their bow, having avoided the worst of the storm, darted forward.

"Ramming speed!" yelled Stannis. He grabbed a javelin from one of the deck-hands standing nearby and aimed it at the galley coming at them. The drumbeat below their feet quickened, the javelin flew, the men cheered. Davos saw the captain of the pirate galley, a man wearing an absurd greathelm- tumble into the sea, four feet of wood-and-iron sticking out of his chest. A sickening crunch rocked the deck, wood and foam flew.

"Silence on decks," thundered Stannis as he sheathed his blade and reached for a bow himself. "Helmsman, two turns to port! Ser Triston and Lord Darke are being boarded."

 _Fury_ tore through the waves, leaving white foam and dark wood and bloody corpses in its wake. Davos ran from one end of the wargalley to the other, putting an end to any celebrations, ordering marines and bowmen to their positions, calling for more scorpion bolts. One of the marines slipped and fell overboard. The Onion knight whispered a prayer for the poor man's mother and ordered for a rower to replace him.

Lord Darke seemed to have beat off the six pirate ships harrying his galley but the pirates had manged to get aft of Ser Triston's and set fire to his sails _. Stannis had ordered to them to strike sails. Gods help Ser Triston after the battle's over_ , winced Ser Davos.

"Loose missiles!" came Stannis' command. Bows twanged. Men screamed. Ballistae roared. The enemy galley listed to port, tried to turn around, and sank. The _Fury_ and the _Maiden's Dream_ passed not forty feet by each other; the Sunglass vessel had clearly got the shit end of the combat. Davos estimated that more than half of its crew had been slain, two of its masts were gone, Ser Triston himself was sitting by the wheel with his head in his hands. The rest of the Fleet had faired far better. They now sailed in a sea of kindling and blood; more than seventy pirate vessels had been smashed to pieces that day, Davos guessed- and yet, he doubted the Royal Fleet had lost even one of their own.

He didn't have any doubts about their venture though. The pirates would stay away for a year, maybe two given that the Ironborn had scoured the Stepstones for treasure and war chests the year before and the Royal Fleet had scoured them for Law and Duty the next. Maybe they would lick their wounds, unfurl their sails and whip their crews and rush to Slaver's Bay or Gogossos in the Basilisk Isles- but they would return. They always did.

"Ser Davos, they're retreating. Signal the fleet! Pursue!" Two cogs had limped out of the battleground and were fast streaming north, their sails like vast clouds.

"Won't work," someone muttered from behind Davos. "They have the wind and our rowers are too tired."

Young Lord Edmure stood behind him, dressed in boiled leather and steel grey greaves. A quiver with three quarrels left in it hung at his waist and in his left hand he held a crossbow with a red salmon etched onto it. A cocking winch hung from a bag at his back. Davos liked the young Riverlord; he had found him to be a quiet and polite lad, very different from most of the young knights he'd met since Lord Stannis had raised him to Lordship. He had heard of the barns and old warehouse Lord Edmure owned on the right bank of the Blackwater as well; a very strange choice to make for a high-born Westerosi lord.

Lord Stannis had a quite different opinion of the Tully boy. The Stormlord would've never said it to another man, of course- but Davos knew him better than anyone else alive. Stannis hated it whenever lords and knights took advantage of their powers- and there were rumours that Lord Edmure had dealings with several Volantene merchants who had been facing a lot of trouble traversing the Narrow Sea. And Lord Edmure was close not only to the Hand, who was his goodbrother, but also King Robert himself, who'd taken a liking to the scented orange Volantene wine and heavy dark rum from Basilisk Point the Riverlord had come to gift him often. And of course, any pirates they drove out of the Narrow Sea would return soon enough. From what he could make out, Stannis had considered their campaign premature and wanted to put it off for two years or so before the Hand had managed to convince him to set sail.

 _Not that he had needed much convincing_ , Davos thought. The first day of each month, Lord Varys would come into the Stannis' chambers at Kings Landing and put a parchment on his desk. On it would be the list of all of the city's ships the Spider believed to have been taken by the pirates in the past thirty days. Stannis would read them silently, grinding his teeth and, undoubtedly, swearing vengeance for each. _Well, he got some of his wishes today_ …

"Every pirate who escapes us today is a danger to honest men," Davos told Lord Edmure. "And while the Free Cities have been ignoring our Fleet's movements because of the recent Rebellion, they won't keep quiet much longer." Though how they would catch them was another question, the thought rushed to Davos' mind. Even the stroke-master, banging away at his leather device belowdecks, seemed to have weakened in his drum-beats. They'd kept a gruelling pace for over four hours, trying to surround and crush the pirates. Expecting more of the men was barely justified.

Edmure swept his arm in an arc towards the land. They were barely a few miles away from the Essosi Coast, towards the North end of the Sea of Myr. "This section of the Coast is three hundred miles distant from Pentos. Twice that from Myr. If we lose the pirates for even a minute, we lose them completely." Before Davos could reply, he saw Stannis marching up to them with gritted teeth and furrowed brows.

"As your Lord Captain," spat Stannis. "I would have more work from the two of you and less words."

"Lord Stannis," Lord Edmure bowed slightly and got a nod back in response. "The wind favours them and our men have had no rest for the past ten days. This battle was their last gasp."

There was a tic in Stannis' cheek. "I won't be taught how to captain my own ship by a fifteen year old boy. If not for Jon Arryn, you wouldn't have even been here. Ser Davos, go down and tell the fools to pick up the pace."

Davos steeled himself. "The men have been rowing their hearts out for more than three hours, my Lord. And Lord Edmure is right. Catching those small sailboats with the wind with them? I would try it if I had my old cog but the _Fury_ will never manage it."

Even now, the pace of the Wargalley was dropping. Most of the Fleet was already a good mile behind them. The three vast lateen sails of the Fury were unfurled but Davos didn't expect them to be of much use. The _Fury_ was simply too big.

Stannis spat on the deck. "I am surrounded by fools," he exclaimed.

"If you had a few…what they're called, Carracks- yes, if you had a few of them, you could've given chase," observed Lord Edmure, as he scratched the back of his head with the nock of a quarrel.

"Are you an Admiral now as well, Ser?" said Stannis bitterly. "Is playing Merchant-prince and self-declared Hand to the Hand not enough for you?"

"Carracks are trade ships, Lord Edmure," Ser Davos swooped in before ruffled feathers started falling. _Lord Stannis, why do you insist on pissing off every high lord you see?_ "With Galleys, you can board other ships." Though it was not entirely accurate. Davos knew of many who preferred large Caravels and Carracks in combat: the Swan ships of the Summer Islanders, for one. And the huge Ibbenese Whalers whose hulls were like floating ramparts.

"Ser Davos is right. Ships are expensive. And with the position of Master of Coin vacant, no dragons will be forthcoming soon."

The sails of the pirates they were chasing vanished over the horizon. Most of the crew had long lost any interest or hope in the chase, only sticking as long as they'd done for fear of Stannis. The rest of the Fleet limped far behind them. Davos shrugged and busied himself with the helmsman; the coast here was shallow and careful navigation would be needed. Stannis marched off to the Forecastle; Lord Edmure a few steps behind him asking him questions about the knights of the Rainwood.

 _Another day well-fought and done_ , sighed Davos.

But if he'd thought his excitements for the day were done, he was wrong. He had barely been at the wheel for fifteen minutes when a shout rang out from the lookout, "CASTLE! CASTLE HALF A MILE TO STARBOARD!"

The Onion knight rushed to the forecastle for new orders. Lord Stannis was already had his Myrish glass in hand. By his side, Lord Edmure was fixing one of his last quarrels to his crossbow. After some time, Stannis put down his instrument and rubbed his eyes. "Deserted," he bit off, handing Davos the glass.

Davos put the tube to his right eye and waited till he adjusted to the blurry sight. _I'm not getting any younger_. Maybe in ten or fifteen, Lord Stannis would let him retire to the small holdfast he'd given him and he would spend the rest of the days in peace with his wife and children.

The Lookout had been too optimistic when he'd described the ruins he'd spied as a castle. That it had been in use recently was in no doubt; Davos could see a corpse hanging from a gibbet and battered, torn banners of Free Cities ships hanging from the half-collapsed towers. The keep appeared to have been made of red brick, a low wall enclosing the ruins of three towers- but it'd been long since any had extended the buildings or even had repaired the damages. As the Fury moved ahead and more of the Keep came into view, they saw that it had been built on a small island, cut off from the finger of the Essosi Mainland by a small channel. There was a tiny harbour with remains of an old mast sticking out of the water.

"That's Lizard Point. And it looks like we have a spoil of war in front of us." smiled Davos.

"I can imagine Robert's joy," replied Stannis in a flat voice.

Lord Edmure looked every excited, craning his neck and standing on his toes to get a better view. _I used to be a lot like that once_ , thought Davos. _Are lowborn and lords really so similar?_ He handed over Lord Stannis' glass to the young knight.

"It's fantastic!" exclaimed Lord Edmure. "It's ours, isn't it? We defeated the pirates. That's our spoil of war! It belongs to the Fleet!"

"It belongs to whoever claims it," said Stannis through clenched teeth as he marched back to his maps.

"Then why aren't we going to claim it?" asked Lord Edmure, his puzzlement clear on his face.

"The Free Cities will take offence," Davos told him. "They won't take much notice if pirates laid claim- but the Realm interfering in Essos would be too much for them."

"A shame really," said Stannis without looking up from his work. "Hold that island and you can fight off any pirate within five hundred miles. But the Pentoshi have no power and the Myrish would rather fight for the farms & holdfasts in the Disputed lands than a bunch of rocks miles away from anywhere."

"So, you're not going to claim that place?" asked Lord Edmure, a strange light shining in his eyes.

"No, boy," grunted Stannis. "And if you have any more questions about the Stormlands, ask them to Ser Davos. I am the Lord of Dragonstone, not Storm's End."


	10. The Tourney of Lannisport

**JAIME**

 **290 AC**

" _TASTE THE SUMMER_ " read Ser Jaime Lannister.

He blinked.

" _Feel the breezes of the Summer Sea. Taste the heady olives from the banks of Volaena and the tart taste of the grapes of the Orange Coast. Through the storms of the Braavosi coastlands and the pirate-haunted waters of the Redwyne Straits, the intrepid exqlorers of Paenymion of Volantis and Lys have brought for you…tastes for the ages…blah, blah…perfect for love, celebration, grief…blah, blah…drunk by huntsmen and ploughmen alike…blah, blah…same price from Dorne to the Wall…Summer's Daughter Orange Wine…_ Who the Hell wrote this thing! The Braavosi Coastlands don't even lie between Lys and Lannisport!"

His uncle Gerion, eyes wide with incredulity, exclaimed, "That's the problem you see, Jaime? Nothing else?"

"I see someone praising his wine. If it were me, I'd have him sent to the Wall for the toss he has written but unfortunately that's no crime."

Gerion tapped irritably on the faded, yellow piece of paper that had been stuck to the door of the Sailor's Sept of Lannisport. "No, it's not. But this is not the only one we've found. There must be dozens of them- stuck to walls, doors, barns. The melee grounds were full of them before Kev had them torn down."

"So? The man really wants people to sample his wares," Jaime shrugged.

"There are at least four Redwynes participating in Tywin's Tourney and at least half a thousand of those nauseating Roses and their lick-spittles," snapped Gerion as he tore down the offending piece of paper. "Pirate-infested? The only pirates in the Arbor are the Redwynes themselves!"

Jaime beamed at this. "So shouldn't we be informing more people of this pamphlet's message?"

"This is exactly why we shouldn't be informing anyone of this pamphlet's message!" His Gerion shouted, drawing stares from half the street. "That odious Queen of Thorns! She will tattle about this to everyone she finds!"

"A thoroughly unpleasant woman, I'm sure," Jaime consoled him as he quickly started leading his uncle away into a side street to avoid the stares. Lannisport was home to several merchant families of noble descent, many of whom were riding in the Tourney themselves, and visiting minor lords and landed knights often amused themselves with the sights and wares in the City.

"You don't know half of it! Kev's putting me in charge of entertaining all these lordlings! What do I know of pretentious Reachmen and snotty Stormlanders? Just because I play the fiddle and make japes and like mummers' shows doesn't mean he can tell me to handle a fucking tourney!"

"Weren't you the one who'd told Tyrion and me that a Tourney was just a Mummer's Show with more blood and less drink? I think a jara wina day won't go amiss now! Wish Tyrion could've waited for the Tourney. We probably missed him by just a week, didn't we?"

"Yes, he said he wanted to meet you and the kids as soon as possible," muttered Gerion.

"Wonder what delayed him though, unless Stannis arrested him for smuggling too many books into King's Landing," Jaime grinned.

Gerion shot a strange look at Jaime before starting to mutter under his breath again. They were in a narrow, dank alley- something that seemed more like King's Landing than well-run Lannisport but Jaime knew that it'd been a struggle for his uncles and cousins to restore the City as best as they could as soon as possible. Lannisport was not only important as the greatest port in the Westerlands, it was also, like the Rock itself, a testament to Lannister strength. After the humiliation by Euron Greyjoy, Tywin Lannister had no intention of looking weak again. The Tourney was as much to celebrate Robert's victory as it was to demonstrate Lannister might to the Lords and Ladies of the Realm.

"Cheer up, will you? I'll win the Tourney myself and then we'll buy and drink every drop of Summer's Daughter in town! He can hardly sell what he doesn't have!" said Jaime as they turned a corner and emerged at the Clearing House of Lannisport, a long, low stone building built in the Westerlands fashion- narrow, high windows along with a courtyard in the middle of the building, and huge basements below. Dozens, hundreds of merchants thronged here- though far too few for someone accustomed to the hustle and bustle of King's Landings market _. But there is still something strange here_ , Jaime wondered. Until it struck him.

The silence…

At this time of the hour at King's Landing, fishmongers would've been bringing in their catch and cartlords of grain coming in from ship and cart from as far as Bitterbridge and Sow's Horn and Darry. The harbour and markets would be whirlwinds of cacophony, laughter, and anger where every hawker, vendor, mummer, and footpad from the Bay of Crabs to the Sea Drone naturally gravitated to and where the City Watch ran around trying to ensure none store more than the ones clad in gold...But here, at the very same hour there was barely more a mild murmur, rising and ebbing every time one of the red-and-gold automons of the Rock Guard marched by.

"We have been lucky," said uncle Gerion, who hadn't noticed his nephew's sudden silence, as he led Jaime through the stalls and carts, piled high with water chestnuts and fish freshly caught the morning from the Feastfires. "With most of the winter harvest from Kayce to Crakehall burnt and lost, Kevan and I had feared that many will starve- especially in the north. We sat up nights arguing with him, asking for the Tourney to be out off for next year… but Tywin was adamant." He smiled weakly and shrugged.

When he was fifteen and half the Westerlands had been in rebellion, Tywin Lannister had marched out of the Rock with mutinous troops and frightened captains. To his north were the Reynes of Castamere. To his south, Tarbeck Hall. Wherever he'd have marched, his rear and flanks would've been exposed and his baggage train open. A weaker man would've bled men and coin in sieges. A lesser man would've locked himself in the Rock and send ravens to the Iron Throne.

First Lord Tywin had crushed Lord Tarbeck on the field. He'd forced the remnants of the enemy back into the castle but instead of laying siege, he'd bombarded the Keep for two weeks with his siege engines. Day and night, he had rained fire onto Tarbeck Hall until nothing remained of it but cinders. Then he had turned and intercepted the relief army rushing from Castamere. With Lord Robert near death, the Castameres had retreated to their great castle deep within the bowels of the Earth, a honeycomb of mazes, turrets, and hidden harbours, extending dozens of miles under the Earth and unassailable by land, sea or dragonfire.

The Reynes had bent their knees and sued for peace. The Lannister captains and bannermen had asked for mercy. Uncle Tygett, the only man Jaime had ever known to stand up his father, had inspected the defences and pronounced them impregnable and asked Lord Tywin to accept their surrender and return home. He had said that slaughtering not one, but two Houses, root and branch would be a mark of excess on part of the Lannisters. For a long time, Lord Tywin had stared at his brother- so long that the assembled Lords and Knights had feared for their lives for it was well-known that the two brothers bore little love for each other, even at that young age.

" _Tell me not of excesses, Ser."_ he had replied to uncle Tygett in an iron voice that brooked no dissent. _"I would smite the Sun if it insulted me_."

And now the rains wept over the halls of Castamere, with no one there to hear.

"See that ship, Jaime?" Uncle Gerion's voice broke him out of his thoughts. His uncle was pointing at a magnificent 200-oar, double-banked wargalley with a high forecastle and a deck bristling with scorpions. "That's _Gerold's Fist_ ," he said proudly. "Once the Fleet is fully repaired, I mean to sail on it to the East. Let the pirates of the World beware!"

"Just don't say that in front of Stannis or he will arrest you for stealing his job!"

"Which one? Royal Stick-up-the-arse?"

"No, no- that's Renly. Stannis has a cleaner head."

The two of them laughed heartily as they made their way to the Rock.

The next day, Tourney started with a massive upset. Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, hero of Pyke and not even a knight for a year, split three lances with Lord Jason Mallister before knocking the Lord of Seagard off his Rouncey. Then he'd faced off against Bronze Royce, Tourney entrant for more than three decades and the finest lance of the Vale despite his age. What the Bearlord lacked in technique and experience though, he'd made up in speed and agility; the point of his lance would be placed just-so, and Bronze Royce lay in the mud. There were few Northmen in the stands but the Stormlanders had been more than happy to cheer for the man the King had knighted; Robert himself was banging his goblet on the delicately carved high table- which probably explained the look on his father's face.

But Jaime knew why his sweet sister looked upset. No matter. The only thing better than spending Tywin Lannister's gold on drinks with uncle Gerion was pumping away between Cersei's legs, her eyes dark with passion and delight and her golden hair a halo around her pearl-white face, neck, shoulders and breasts. The favour - the one she'd given him the previous night as they'd lain panting after their love-making- fluttered like a pennant as he climbed atop his destrier and signalled for his helm.

His first opponent was from a landed house called Essen. The knight- a tourney knight by his well-worn shield and nimble lancework- bore a device Jaime had never seen before, a Red eagle on a white field. Jaime broke two lances with him before planting him on the ground. His next opponent was a Frey on a Percheron, bearing the favour of some girl with a bad overbite sitting on the third row. Jaime knocked off his opponent on his very first pass and raised his arms for the crowd. Cersei's favour was golden like her hair, and her smell still played about it- filling Jaime's nostrils along with the sweat of horses and men and the blood on the afternoon sun and the heat of lovers' bodies. He felt almost drunk as he defeated Ser Garth Greysteel, and then a green boy bearing the colours of Haystack Hall and Lord Bar Emmon and some Manderly knight from the North.

But the favourite of the crowd was undoubtedly Ser Jorah. His bearing was stolid, as if he was at war instead of festivity; his technique redundant, and posture slouched. But after every victory- over Frey and Whent and Frey again- he'd ride around the field, saluting the smallfolk before stopping near one of the pavilions and bowing to a golden-haired Reachgirl Jaime identified as one of the Hightowers. _Fucking hell_ , Jaime thought as he prepared to face off against his childhood friend, Ser Adam Marbrand, _he's aiming high, our friend Bear…_

 _Well, at any rate he's someone upon whom Summer's Daughter won't be wasted_ , he concluded as he knocked Adam off his Rouncey.

But Ser Jorah's luck held. Ser Lyle Crakehall went down with a crash that broke his destrier's forelegs and left the Boarknight senseless. Then was the turn of Boros Blount, flopping on his horse like a half-drunk septon on a mule, before Ser Jorah out him out of his misery. A stream of gold had floated about Blount and Jaime scowled as he realized that the coward had worn Cersei's favour as well. _I'd thought I was the one_ , he petulantly thought- but maybe he had been childish. Ser Barristan Selmy was now taking his position opposite him and he wore Cersei's favour as well. _Ha_ , _it's good the White Cloaks have no wives!_ Jaime thought, _it'd be terribly confusing if they had to choose between their queen and a love. At least anyone but me…_ For a moment, he thought he saw silver hair glinting in the sun. A sudden rage came upon him and he spurred his horse, rushing at Ser Barristan like a flash of white fire. The Lord Commander seemed puzzled at first but then he'd answered. They rushed at each other; Jaime carefully lined his lance with the centre of Ser Barristan's chest and adjusted his shield…

There was a mighty crash, and Jaime was almost thrown from his saddle in the violence. His lance was gone, snatched clean from his hand and his left chest beat like a leather drum; he tensed the arm, found little trouble and dismissed it from his mind. He regained the reins, looked back and found Ser Barristan picking himself up from the ground; beyond the mud and grass stains, he looked perfectly fine.

The Lord Commander turned and lifted his visor as Jaime rode up to him. "Well struck, Ser Jaime," he congratulated him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That was a sharp defence."

 _You nearly took my arm off, old man._ Jaime turned his head down, squinting through the narrow slits of his bascinet for a better look at his arm. He tried to take off his helmet but his left arm wouldn't bend.

"The armour's bent," explained Ser Barristan as he came nearer and inspected Jaime's side. "Vambrace, Lance Rest; you'll have to be cut out from there once this is over. I hope you're not taking part in the melee, are you?"

"No," Jaime heard his muffled voice respond. "Cersei's favour would get soiled in the mud."

"For the honour of the Iron Throne," smiled Ser Barristan- again stopping just before it reached his eyes. "I wish you the best, Ser Jaime."

Jaime tried his arm again and found it jammed by the twisted and torn vambrace." Ser Barristan," he called out. "How come you fell and got off with nary a scratch while I'm stuck in this tin pot?"

"What can I say, Ser Jaime? At my age, I've learnt to let go of some things to protect what's precious to me." Ser Barristan bowed slightly before turning on his heels and marching off to the high table where King Robert was sitting.

 _Cersei_ , he thought as he signalled for a new shield and trotted his horse back to his position. _Tyrion. Adam. Aunt Genna. Daven. Uncle Kevan and Gerion. Aunt Donna. Tyrion. Strongboar. Cersei, my beautiful, golden love_.

Ser Jorah was now directly below the Hightower girl's pavilion; he saw her blow a kiss to the Bearlord. The latter looked terribly now that Jaime had the chance for a clear view with a clear eye. The Northman's inexperience with tournaments was apparent to all. His mail coif was unsuitable. His greathelm too heavy. Those furs would throw off his balance…Tiny cuts and scratches covered his chin and cheeks where the mail had failed to protect him from the splinters. _Better knights than you have lost an eye in tourneys, Jaime._ A tall, tall prince sank to his knees. Lust of the eyes. Lust of the body. _Cersei…_

 _The things we do for love_ , Jaime sighed as he lowered his lance. Ser Jorah noticed him, bid farewell to the Hightower girl and slowly moved to the end of the field where he took a new lance and readied himself.

A note blew from the high table, the horses charged. A second latter, Jaime Lannister lay on the ground spread-eagled, too tired to even pick himself up. _Tyrion would be so disappointed in me_ , he sighed as the crowd's cheers rose about him.


	11. The Eternal War

**EDDARD**

 **290 AC**

"Highest ranking Ranger to desert in forty fucking years, Ned. Mallister must be having straw for brains! And he wanted to be Lord blithering Commander, the gall of the man!" grumbled the Greatjon as he and his son rode alongside Eddard along a dirt track near the Last Hearth. They had been inspecting the farmsteads, a task ordinarily for early spring but that had been out off in the chaos of the Rebellion. Thankfully, long custom and simple northern sensibility had meant they had little to do. The smallfolk had done much of the work themselves and, barring a few stops where they'd practically forced the two lords and their retinue to feast with them, they'd made fast progress.

The only hiccup in this smooth task had been the reports of Wilding raids near Queenscrown in the New Gift. Ordinarily this would a matter for the Night's Watch- but these had been led by Mance Rayder, a former Ranger himself and one of the finest to have served the Watch during Eddard's time. Eddard didn't have the time to go there himself but he had sent Jory Cassel and six men marching to inspect the area and then go to Castle Black to get the details from Lord Commander Mormont.

Smalljon nodded at his father's words. "A Norrey told me five wildings paddled a little boat across the Bay of Ice two weeks ago. Killed some poor fisherman and stole his woman and sheep. Haven't been seen since! It's like winter never ended!"

"Is the Bay clear of ice already?" asked Eddard. He'd thought he wouldn't have to worry this early; that the broken and thin pack ice would remain in place for a few months and render Wildling crossings perilous. Maybe he should postpone his inspection of Deepwood Motte for a visit to the Frostfang Mountains; delaying that of Oldcastle and the other Southlands near the Bite would be unwise, especially after a harvest had already been taken in.

Smalljon took off his fur-lined half helm and scratched his shaggy hair, "Not entirely. I daresay you can take a sheep across, but not a woman."

"Sheep and women, is there even any difference between the two for the Norreys & the Wildlings?" snapped Mors Crowfood. "Don't bother Ned with them! There's a blithering Ranger and oathbreaker at large!"

"That reminds me. There was this shingdig 'tween the Knotts and the Harclays, Ned. Aber Harclay claimed that one of the Knotts stole his red goat, so the fool gets piss drunk, goes into their lands and stamps all over a pumpkin patch," the Greatjon interjected.

"They didn't kill him for that, did they?" asked Eddard, alarmed. He'd have to ask the Last Hearth's maester to send the Glovers a raven. It was clear a visit to the Mountain Clans was needed.

"Not for the pumpkins, no. He burnt down a hut and tried to fuck one of their bulls after that. Had his head bashed in, poor chap. Now the Harclays want wergild."

"Aber Harclay was half-blind and full mad. Me says the bull did them all a favour, especially the goat," put in Crowfood.

The Greatjon paid his uncle no attention. "The Knotts told them that they're free to come & ask the bull for it. Now, they're preparing to fight one other rather than go after Mance!" He spat a gob onto the ground.

They went over a rise on the road and came onto a vast glen, narrow and deep but in length, full five miles long. A small brook warbled at the bottom, its bank a glittering green with the first spring grass with patches of snow and snowdrops here and there. The far end was a shimmering yellow with rank after rank of mountain flowers opening their buds to greet the travellers. The wall were thick and black with firs and pines; and a thin mist hung about their branches. In the distance they could see deer grazing, among them a buck with antlers a full four feet across.

"Hodgar's Hollow," smiled the Smalljon as they paused to take deep breaths of the cool air. Hodgar Umber had once been King, in the days when the North had still been under contestation between Winterfell, Dreadfort, Greywater Watch and the Last Hearth. He had broken an unnamed Wildling warlord one winter but the man had been a warg and his familiar hawk had gone berserk after that, screeching and diving at the King uncaring of the danger. Hodgar had laughed at the beast and tucking his arms into his furs, joked that he would bite off the hawk's head with his mouth next time it dived. He did- but one of the bird's claws had entered his eye, and he had died there- coming to rest among the flowers of the vale that still bore his name.

"There are barrows at the far end, below a copse of Weirwoods." Crowfood pointed with a grubby finger. "Whoresbane has studied them deeply. Old kings with bronze axe heads and daggers of flint and obsidian. There were a few Umbers among them, maybe one of them Hodgar himself," he laughed. "There was one who was probably one of yours, Ned. Wore a helm fashioned of black iron and a direwolf skull."

"We will raise some more for Mance and his kin," grunted the Smalljon.

"Maybe Mance will be good enough to build some for us," grunted Crowfood. "Yoren was telling he now ruled a band of seven hundred. Seven hundred! By this reckoning, he will have five thousand before two years are done."

"Five thousand cannibals and degenerates. I've heard they stab their own daughters," said the Greatjon. "I'd like to stab Mance Ravenhelm myself. I've got six feet just for him."

"We all know how big your sword is, nephew. Don't start on that now."

"I've heard the Weeper has more," Eddard put an end to the budding argument. With the Umbers, the bite was worse than their bark but the bark was loud nevertheless. "Wasn't he the one who takes the eyes of the women he leaves behind?"

The Greatjon growled, "The very same. That one is a nightmare, Ned." The path meandered through the knee-high grass, redolent with the smells of honey mead and Myrish Green nectar. They crossed a small stream that drained into the brook, a trickle of glass among the pebbles and grass. Birds rose above them, filing the sky with the flutter of their wings. Already they were seeing signs of habitation- a vegetable patch here, a broken cartwheel there. A young boar's carcass lay some distance from the path, being worried at by hunting dogs. As they watched, their master ran up.

"M'Lord Umber! M'Lord Stark," he called out as soon as he saw them. "They has caught some of 'em Wildings, m'lord. Ged One-eye and his brothers did."

"Have they?" boomed the Greatjon happily. "See, Ned. We'll have Mance's whereabouts out of them in no time. Then you and me, we can smash that prick like Robert smashed the dragons."

"Made him a king already, did you?" remarked Crowfood drily.

"King of cannibals and turncloaks, he already is. I made him nothing."

The Wildings were a sorry lot, the marks of the past winter clearly visible on the three's skeletal frames, sunken cheeks and battered clothes. One of the men had lost an entire hand; black and rotting flesh still sticking to the stump. The lone woman had had her ears cut off as well as the two smallest fingers off her right hand. They were asleep, even as they lay in the open yard of the Keep. Hother Umber, Whoresbane to his friends and when out of hearing and Lord Castellan to everyone and every time else, kicked them awake.

"Where are the other two?" Eddard asked as he dismounted from his horse in front of them.

"Wal shot one of them, Ged the other," replied Whoresbane as he bent down and rapidly cut off the Wildling's gags. One of the men, the uninjured one barely older than a boy, tried to bite him and got a cuff on his ear for his troubles. "This one doesn't speak, milords, or at least hasn't in my hearing."

"Has he now?" remarked Mors as he massaged his knuckles. "By the time I'm done with him, he will be ready to tell us how many times he pissed his bed as a child."

Eddard bent down on his haunches. "You know where you are?" he asked the one-handed man eye to eye; he looked older and more weather-beaten, probably was their master.

"Some kneeler's house," a hoarse voice replied.

"This is the Last Hearth, ruled by the Umbers," Eddard told them. "Do you know who I am?"

The man twitched and avoided Ned's eyes. The woman spoke for him, "We know your kind. Wolfking. King of the kneelers."

"Only free man south of the Wall," grunted the older man. The young man stared on at them with blank, wide eyes.

 _No man is free, Not me. Not you. Not even a king._ He stood up. "You slew a fisherman of the Norreys and stole his wife. Speak your plea, tell me where she is." He ordered coldly.

The Wildlings were silent. At length, the woman spoke, "When Dormodr fell, Skinflint and Kuma started to fight. There were seventy of us and twenty of Kuma though- and we had thrice as many iron swords. Naregg slew Kuma and gave Skinflint his skull for a skull cup. The hunting grounds were ours but we had lost too many men. Giantsbane was close so we moved."

"Giantsbane?" asked Crowfood. "He is still alive?"

The older man licked his cracked and bloody lips. "Aye, he is. Slew Naregg, he did. Him and his sons, they came creeping up one snowy night to take a buckskin we were drying. Tried to carry off one of Meda's girls but we made him flee."

Whoresbane spat, "You lie! Giantsbane doesn't cross the Frostfangs! We found you in Norrey land!"

"Me no liar, kneeler," hissed the woman. "We crossed the Milkwater and the Frostfangs after the band broke up. We crossed Raymun's Gorge." A spasm of pain rippled in her eyes and that of the older man. "I lost my wee daughter there but we crossed it. Then Oddcat's Ford and the lands of the ice-river clans. We tried to live on the Frozen shore for some time but the Sealhunters came then. Dag decided for us to cross the Bay; they opened his brains the day we were to leave."

Eddard could see shock, even admiration in some cases, creeping onto the face of everyone there, including his own. There were no mountains more treacherous or colder than the Frostfangs in the lands, no river as fast and cruel than the Milkwater; in the winter they would've been almost insurmountable. Benjen had once told him that a man could lose an arm if he even dipped it in the Milkwater for an instant. _No wonder their band of seventy came to just these three. Few could've survived those ordeals and yet stood in front of us_. Mors Umber still looked sceptical. He opened his mouth, probably to deny the woman's words again.

"Where is the woman you had stolen?" repeated Eddard patiently as he silenced Mors Umber with a look.

"Dead. We Freefolk lived but your southron woman, she was weak. We tried to cross the Bay but the ice was rotten," said the older man. "When Geta took the woman, we tried to turn back and were chased away by some of your kneeler men. Carried a flag with moons on it." _The Harclays, then. Things must be bad if their riders were out in force,_ thought Eddard. "Wandered east, crossed the hills, and moved south. The nights were cold and we had no food. Woman didn't live long." Eddard's eyes blazed with anger. _As if one could expect a woman to survive for long when she is being raped every night by savages_.

"Have any of you heard of someone called Mance Rayder?"

"The crow? No but there are many like him, free crows. Why?"

 _Indeed. Far more than there ought to be._ He said aloud, "Very well then, she is dead. Lord Umber?"

"Yes, My Lord," The Greatjon waited his command.

Eddard hardened his heart, as he always did in times of this. "I sentence the three of them to death." _They have faced great trails_ , thought Eddard _. They did not deserve such a life. Or such a death. But neither did the fisherman and his wife_. Eddard wondered whether they had a happy life, whether they hoped for children, what they thought of their lords…but that didn't matter now. He had failed them. He had failed them as he had failed Brandon and Lyanna and his Lady wife and so many others. "Have riders ready for dawn tomorrow. After I've executed them, take the corpses and have them strung up on high poles of birch along the Bay of Seals. Do this to any and all Wildlings you catch south of the Wall. I ride to meet the Wulls on the morrow myself but send ravens with my commands ahead as well."

The eyes of the two men turned listless when Eddard pronounced his judgement but those of the woman flashed and she gnashed her teeth loud enough to make the Smalljon reach for his sword, "Have riders sent, fat man. Fly birds, one-eye," she taunted. "You're all afraid, kneelers. Afraid. Can't have that apple, it's the lord's. Can't walk through that valley, can't smell that flower, can't touch that woman. Always afraid, dying a hundred times every day if a lord looks at you. And you're afraid of us. Because you don't kneel. That's why you take our lands. That's why you raise your bloody wall. That's why you send brown men on ships to take our children, that's why you set crows to spy and kill and steal from us, that's why you send painted beards to kill Dormodr and rape my sisters, that's why you cower upon ships and take our children and make them kneelers on ships, cowards! That's you attack us when we ask for some food even when you have a fucking heard of sheep with you! You call yourself Wolfking, Grey-eyes? Have you even seen a direwolf in your life?"

They all stared at the woman.

"Brown men? Ships? Painted beards?" Smalljon asked his elders.

"Slavers, no doubt," said Eddard, "Sailing up from Myr and Tyrosh." _I knew they sometimes sailed north at the height of summer when the bays are open but to take a tribe's own warlord in spring…_

"The slaver is accursed in the eyes of men," said Crowfood.

Whoresbane snorted. "So are turncloaks and savages. Ned, let the savages be. May they all finish each other off and leave us honest Northmen in peace."

"And what if the slavers tire of fighting spearwives and giants and turn their eyes to simpler folk?" Eddard replied fiercely. "There are peaceful peasant and fisherfolk all over the Grey Cliffs and the mouth of the Last River. The Skagosi are war-like, yes- but they have little steel and no armour. Widow's Watch and White Harbour are strong but they and their men cannot be everywhere at once."

A gurgling laugh came from their prisoners. The mute, wild-eyed young man- little more than a boy, Eddard saw now, was laughing.

"Fools!" He bit out, a wild snarl twisting his mouth into an ugly gash. "Fight among yourselves, kneelers. Fight as much as you want. And when the snows finally clear from the Bay of Seals, fear. Fear the Crowkiller, the Weeper and the Rattleshirt. They've had enough. They're coming for you, kneelers. You and your brown men and your crows. We will hang your entrails on our trees, we will take your daughters and birth sons on them, we will take your herds and…"

The Greatjon stepped forward and struck the boy with a fist half the size of the latter's skull. The boy was flung two foot away, and lay unmoving, his chest heaving heavily and breath whistling. The Greatjon turned, worry and anger warring on his face. "Ned?"

Blood oozed from the boy's ears and nose; few men could stand a strike from the Greatjon. It was strange how young the boy looked now, far younger than he had a few minutes ago. Robb and Jon were almost the same age, maybe slightly younger. "I've changed my mind, Jon." _Dragonspawn._ "Bring me Ice. We execute them now. Then, I ride for the mountains."

"But what if they're telling the truth, Ned?" asked Whoresbane as the prisoners were lead away, morose and unspeaking, by the Smalljon "What about the Crowkiller & the Weeper?"

"Aye, the Weeper knows nothing but rape and murder and godsdamned Crowkiller... Fucking slavers as well," grunted the Greatjon.

This was the North. And he was Lord.

Ned said softly, "I will break them."


	12. Merchant Princes

**TIRO**

 **290 AC**

Slowly, he twisted the delicate silver knob to affix the wood blocks firmly enough that they wouldn't fall out during the machine's movement. He checked the spirit level, ensuring that the little bubble floating inside the distilled alcohol inside the thin Myrish glass would be within the two delicate lines etched onto the tube. Blinking the sweat away from his eyes, he slowly rotated the slant gear, two feet across and cast from brass, to ensure that the dye wouldn't run off the paper and that the heavy press would come down as perpendicular to the ground as possible. Earlier that morning, he had removed and measured the weights himself. Lord Edmure had often assured him that such wasn't necessary- but Tiro liked to be careful. The man-less paper press they had devised was simpler; a simply heavy press roller and a drying cloth rack turned by Harry, a bull Lord Edmure had bought from a peasant nearby, could do the trick- but with the maester machine, greater steadiness and less force was imperative.

Once the task had been accomplished to his satisfaction, he stood up and stretched his cramped and aching muscles. Turning to the motley line of smallfolk workers and hired merchant clerks, he gave the signal. With a groaning of muscles and whispered curses and the screech of gears, the machines started moving. The gears turned about, wheels screeched, and Tiro heard a tiny whine from somewhere. _Machine 3_ , he mentally noted. _I would need to strip it and make the repairs tonight after finishing the accounts_.

The Tully warehouse was originally a ruined brick house of a long-vanished family of landed knights which stood on the right bank of the Blackwater; separated from the rest of the city by the river and the walls. It had been raised in the days of the Mad King before the Sack meant that there were fewer people left to use it. The lord of Bronzegate had bought it to store imported grain from Pentos during the winter, repaired it, added the barns, and had gifted it to the Hand when his purpose was done. The latter had no use for it though, and so had offered it to Lord Edmure at nominal rents as well as an offer to develop half a mile of the riverfront surrounding it if he paid the Crown a tenth of the profits.

Tiro remembered the day he'd been bought, and then freed by Lord Edmure as if it had been yesterday. He had been weak, injured and near delirious by the time Lord Edmure and a stevedore he'd hired, had managed to get him to the Hand's Tower at the Red Keep. There a maester of House Arryn had been commanded by the Hand's wife, Lord Edmure's sister, to bind his wounds and he'd been sent to a tiny room to recover his strengths. After two weeks, the Hand, 'Lord'- as he'd been taught to call the masters of Westeros- Jon Arryn had visited him. He had been a kind, friendly man who had been very interested in Tiro's life. For hours, they'd spoken about his childhood, the village he had grown up in, his past masters, the events at the harbour. Then had come the question. "Tiro, lad, "Lord Arryn had said wearily. "I will be honest. You may be a free man in Westeros but without anyone to vouch for you or a trade you know, you might find it hard to live."

Tiro's blood had run cold at his words. He'd stammered, "I have served two masters in the Spice trade, Master Arryn. I've served them well."

"You are yet to come of age." Lord Arryn had frowned. "You lack the strength for harbour work."

"Master Garraphos taught me to read and write, Master Arryn! I write his accounts!"

Lord Arryn's eyebrows had risen. "Indeed? Edmure didn't know that, did he?" When Tiro had shook his head, he'd gone on, "I understand. Given how busy he has been and you condition, this wouldn't have come into discussion yet…The lad has borrowed one of my stewards this past week- someone whose services I'd rather retain. Tell me, Tiro, do you know what a Lord's retinue is?"

At Tiro's blank look, he'd explained cheerfully, "A Retinue refers to the person in direct service of a Lord- his sworn knights, his squires, heralds and messengers, maybe even a steward or a Septon." There had been similar positions even among the Masters of Pentos. The latter often would go around with courtiers, advisors, mummers, translators- a comfortable but unsteady position at mercy of the Master's whims. Tiro had asked whether that was the case here as well to which had come the reply. "No, lad- that is what is called an entourage. A retinue consists of sworn men; their position a contract of honour between lord and retainer."

"Are they…like slaves?"

"No!" Lord Arryn had been shocked. "A Westerosi is a freeman. He serves his master only if he is satisfied that his honour and labour is being respected. He can own lands, farms, weapons, keeps, hold his counsel, his previous oaths and fealty. Edmure might be a tad irresponsible but he is a good lad. You won't regret serving him."

And that had been enough for Tiro to declare himself a Riverlander.

The first few weeks had been hard for Lord Edmure and Tiro. They had little help, apart from Perwyn Frey and Hugo Vance who would turn up whenever their duties permitted them, and a lot of work. Then one day, one of his Lord's friends had sent him helpers, in the form of three young boys and a knight. The first was Daeron Bellpiper, a fiery haired, fiery tempered boy of thirteen. The other two boys were twins, twelve year olds from House Sattler from Sattlerwaite in the Riverlands. The knight had been a sad-looking young man of nineteen who had introduced himself as Willem Fairdyme.

The work stopped, and each of the six workers put on the braking levers and removed the paper stands. Each held twenty-five sheets of yellow paper glistening with ink which they then put out to dry on the reed-covered floor. Tiro was proud of the ink. For over two months, he'd laboured over it at night after work- mixing the cheapest Tyroshi black dye with lampblack and purified wax until he'd got a mixture as lasting as it was smooth. _TRUST ONLY ORIGINAL SUMMER'S DAUGHTER FROM VOLANTIS. BEWARE OF FAKES_. _DRUNK FROM DORNE TO THE WALL_ , Tiro read on one batch. The paper was thin; the seal once broken could not be repaired. A maester might forge one or two given enough time- but without the secret of the maester press, no loss would be incurred. _And soon enough, no one will know if we're selling Paenymion's overpriced piss or that from some rat-trader from Valysar_ …

"Well done!" he said appreciatively as he finally sighed a sigh of relief, "The first batch of the day is done. Work till the noontime meal and then report to me or Ser Fairdyme."

 _And now for the difficult part of the day_ , he groaned as he opened and went out of the door.

Their rooms were sparse and ill-furnished, unlike the opulent Pentoshi warehouses Tiro had been used to. At the centre were the barns where the day-to-day work was transacted, mostly that of the cloth being brought in from Maidenpool, Wickenden waxes, and Fellwood timber, drifted down barges on the Wendwater and then bought up the Blackwater bay. Down in the cellars, was kept Volantene orange and persimmon wine, and Reds and Whites from Lys, and Selhorys pale Greens- the sole contracts for which were held by the Paenymion Heptarchate. _Till now_ , though Tiro viciously. But in the cellars were more treasures- silks and spices bought from the smaller traders from Volantis; enough to fill half a hundred ships. Tiro had been alarmed to first see the hoard- months of overdue credit, until he had heard Lord Edmure's reasons. Behind the barns, were the money-changing rooms in charge of Tiro himself where they'd buy honors from the Heptarchate in exchange of promises and give them to smaller traders for the latter's goods. Lord Edmure had been insistent on starting a pledging and insurance trade as well but had been convinced by Tiro to wait until they had more men and less debt.

But towards the sea, separated from the rest of the place by a thin wooden fence, was where Tiro felt most at ease. There were the rooms they used during the day for business, the sleeping rooms for Ser Willem & Daeron & the three guardsmen they'd brought, along with four Goldcloaks Lord Arryn had assigned to guard their warehouse and waterfront, & Tiro himself, tiny cells for the workers Ser Willem had brought from Maidenpool and the merchant clerks the Coxs had hired for Lord Edmure on Ser Hugo's request. Finally came the rooms for the presses and the 'advertising' material as Lord Edmure described it- and then an island of silk and crystal and silver and complaints within their otherwise rough and cheerful warehouse.

Two burly guards- indentured servants to the Westerosi and slaves in reality- frowned at him as they always did but Tiro paid them no attention as he knocked on the teak door with a great Chrysanthemum crest carved & painted a pearl blue onto it. Tiro wondered where the other eight guards were. _At least Lord Edmure managed to convince her not to get Unsullied from her home…_

"Come in," said a silvery voice in trader's Valyrian.

A slave girl opened the door, and Tiro was led into a room that wouldn't have looked out of place in Garraphos' place. His feet sank into the Myrish carpet, so rich was it, and all around him were silken and woollen Novroshi tapestries depicting the history and greatness of the Paenymion Heptarchate- the three houses of Volantis led by the Elephant Triach Doniphos Paenymion himself, the two of Selhorys, the one at Tall Trees town, and at the very centre, the Lyseni Paenymion Crest to which their resident patron owed allegiance- the Blue Chrysanthemum. Directly below it, on two low settees, reclined the Lady herself and a guest while young women slaves around them served them wines and pomegranates. A slave came running with a cushioned stool for him which he took gratefully. It was best to be comfortable when the woman started whining.

"This is Taecemo Agaellis, a captain in the employ of the illustrious Tregar Ormollen," their resident vampire introduced him to a fat perfumed Lyseni lord with rings shining on his sausage-like fingers and his many jowls shining with what smelled like jasmine oil. "Honoured Taecemo, this is Master Tiro, a freedman accountant in employ of Lord Edmure. You may speak freely in front of him. He is Pentosi, not a barbarian!"

"A fellow Essosi!" Taecemo's eyes glinted with mirth. "Oh, my poor heart! I am so glad for you, Mistress Paenymion. I know how vexing it can be to talk with these Westerosi lords. A kindred face that can understand sums is priceless in this cold land." _Kindred? I'm from Andalos, you silver-haired glutton! Why are so many middle-aged merchants so fat?_ thought Tiro as he bowed to the newcomer.

"True, honoured master," tittered Aenera Paenymion as she poured out a cup of mulled Arbor Red for him, "He has also been a worthy confidant; I happen to be his former mistress, you see. A stroke of luck, to be honest though." _The vampire drinks red wine, how original!_

"Ah! The goddess smiles upon you, dear Mistress Aenera. Is Master Tiro the one we have to thank for the recent advancements in prospects for this dilapidated City? What we knew of the young lord Tully at the Serenate had been not different from the Westerosi norm, exceedingly mediocre..." _Mediocre?_ _Lord Tully will eat your ships whole and you with you! Just you wait_ …

"For my part, I found him intriguing for a Westerosi Lord." Tiro could barely believe his ears; _was the vampire standing up for her victims?_ "And yet so refreshingly unsuspecting. I had heard Westerosi knights were gallant but to see Ser Willem stammer in front of me." She laughed as she played with a peach before sinking her nails into it. "It was worth investing in a spy near the Hand. We wouldn't have heard of Lord Edmure otherwise. His practices…they have been very interesting, to say the least; I wouldn't have refused my father's offer to return and stayed otherwise."

"But that was fortunate…there would have been no knowledge of Lizard point otherwise. But what of it? My master does not believe that his interests would be served if he aids you in this. Six hundred leagues from Myr it may be- but it is twice that from Lys."

"Which is why we must have it, honoured master," Aenera's voice twinkled. "For too long, Lyseni ships have suffered piratical depredations in the Stepstones funded by Myr and Tyrosh. A stronghold of our own! Imagine the possibilities. We can choke the Sea of Myr at will! Spill those Tyroshi tubs of dye every time they paw at our farms in the Disputed Lands!" Her purple eyes gleamed with triumph and anger. "And why stop there? Why not Pentos, Ghis, Ibben? The Heptarchate can be…confining for a young ambitious House. Why not Volantis itself?"

"Because they have more wargalleys than us?" smirked Taecemo. "Because they can raise more men, call upon more mercenaries? I venture that Honoured Doniphos will not be amused at the actions of a client House, a foreign one at that."

"Which is why we must be subtle," smiled Aenera demurely, the very picture of innocence. "My father and uncles have recently gained great influence in Tyrosh, and a wife as well."

"I am aware of it. No wonder the Pentoshi are on the warpath and Westeros full of dyes."

Silvery laughter tinkled in the perfumed air. "Honoured Tregar's eyes miss little. So tell me, honoured master, how many ships do the Paenymions have plying dye to the Seven Kingdoms?" Both Tiro's and Taecemo's eyes widened like saucers. "Exactly. The Pentoshi will pay off their scoundrels, the Tyroshi will ready their fleets, and we…we will find the coin to repair a little holdfast for a little group of knights led by a young lord so that they can fend off pirates on their new trade routes."

Taecemo sputtered, "But that would mean…how many soldiers does this Lord Edmure possess?"

Aenera turned to Tiro who was now red-faced and grinding his teeth. He lashed a vicious look at the Lyseni lady. "Lord Hoster Tully can call upon forty thousand swords. But you will be better served just getting sellswords. Lord Edmure is but heir."

"Who still enjoys great power and has friends…" prompted the vampire with a voice like sweet poison.

"Two thousand," Tiro hissed. "But not for very long. Westerosi armies…"

"Are primitive but will do," the fat merchant-prince waved him quiet. He turned to his hostess, "Will Braavos interfere? It is imperative the payments continue."

"Maybe…"Aenera shrugged her slender shoulders. "Maybe not… The loss of Pentoshi monopoly on cloth has helped them, as has Volantene commerce. But what is it to us? Let a hundred fleets clash and break, as long as none of them are ours. When the waves settle, it will be our galleys that rule Lizard Point and the Sea of Myr!"

"And I will drink to that," said Taecemo as he did exactly that.

They watched him waddle out slowly, calling for his slaves to bring him his palanquin. Aenera signalled for the platters to be cleared away and stretched out on the settee, a vicious smile playing on her lips. "Old civilized Lyseni can be as foolish as young Westerosi barbarians, don't you think, Tiro?" she sang.

"I would disagree, mistress. It seems only yesterday a young learned Lyseni was fuming when she heard that innkeepers and merchants wouldn't touch Volantene wine unless it had been sealed with paper marked by young barbarian Westerosi…"

Aenera smiled, "Yes, that does seem like yesterday. You know, Tiro- I might even miss our dear Lord Edmure when the Pentoshi crush him." She called for some apricots as Tiro seethed with rage and imagined crushing her neck.

 _In response to some of the reviews by Genobeast and Guest..._

 _ASOIF doesn't portray normal feudal relationships as well as its companion books like Dunk & Egg and the Dance of Dragons series. No feudal lord lesser than a Duke or a Marcher Lord had a very secure hold outside his own lands and direct contact with Central authority- especially if one had no children or family- was often more important than landholdings. The High Medieval also marked a time when battles in Western Europe were more often decided among Florentine & Venetian banking cartels than on the battlefield- which we also see with GRRM's verse, if not the show. And then was the fact that until the 1600s, Europe was nothing more than a primitive backwater to the highly civilized nations of Asia._

 _Which is why the Essosi- the Astapori to Dany and the Volantenes to Tyrion & Jorah- consider Westerosi to be barbarians and savages. A Lyseni merchant house that can raise more men than the average Westerosi lord will care little for a Lord Paramount- or for Westerosi law, which more often than not depends on the whims of the (often corrupt) Goldcloaks and nobles enforcing it. Neither would Edmure- who remember, until recently, had NO retainers of his own._

 _Thraingail Aesir, you have a good point. I'll post a few chapters on the ASOIF page as well and see the response._


	13. The Lord's Solar

**MARQ**

 **290 AC**

Marq Piper had often thought that there was nothing better than hot, piping sausages on a crisp spring morning late in the year. Even now, there was little he could find fault with in his breakfast. The sausages were cooked to perfection, garnished with lemons, the first fruit of Dorne in all likelihood, Volantene peppers and Riverlands salt, and probably had been in the pig not half a day hence. The cutlery was ancient silver- but had been cleaned and shone until he could see his face in it.

And the vista in front of him was a sight to die for. They were dining in a solar, a hundred feet high, with what appeared to be the entire Riverlands laid out in front of them. He could see every farm, every tiny hamlet and mill and grove and fishing boat for leagues around. To the north, ran the powerful torrent of foam and rapids that was the Tumblestone, rushing from the dark woods and torn mountains that formed the borders with the Westerlands. To their South, lay a wide and slow, meandering river dotted with tiny wooded islets and choked by sandbars and snags with waters a Tully Red. To their west though he couldn't see it from where he sat at the table, Yohn knew was a ditch, the largest ditch in Westeros- half a mile long and flush with the Tumblestone's bed with a sole fortified stone path splitting it into two. During siege, the levers of the ditch's locks- cunningly hidden within the castle- would be opened; and the castle will stand in its own island, waters flush with the walls, and unassailable to any foe.

And yet, now he wished he could've been anywhere but the Riverrun Solar where he, his father and Lord Hoster Tully sat breaking their fast.

Hoster Tully had always been a big man; tall and broad though growing portly in his old age. His once flaming red hair had dulled to be a greying dark maroon and his fingers were now gnarled and spotty but his eyes still shone a blazing blue, quick to anger. Those eyes had been boring into him all throughout the meal as Ser Clement had described what Marq had been up to at Pinkmaiden during their absence.

"Is it true, Ser?" he had asked Marq in his gruff voice after Lord Clement had finished his tale. Lord Hoster had always been an aloof man. Marq had stayed at Riverrun often but seldom had he exchanged more than two words with his liege lord.

Marq heard an oddly squeaky voice reply, "Every word of it, my Lord. I went over the records myself; we have twice the grain as we used to have and the turnips as well."

"And was there any difference in the nature of the grains? The size of the plants?"

"None. Ed had said we could try leaving the fields fallow every twelve months instead of four, but it wouldn't be necessary as long as we plant clover at intervals. The clover feeds our best cattle; the ones Ed has ordered not to be slaughtered for at least four years. Once the Water wheels and Persian wheels built, I'll rig them up to mills but in the meantime, we've been sending grain to the Westerlands or down the River Road, wool as well and the Rygers send flax."

Lord Hoster closed in eyes in thought. After some time, he said, "And how many of my lords have been doing so already?"

Lord Clement answered for him, "Most of us in the west. Lord Blackwood sent one of his boys to learn as well. I told my nephew to expect Lord Bracken; I expect he'll be there by today and then Yohn will ride east. There, not many- probably only the Rygers and the Mootons."

"Good…I should thank Edmure and all of you…but Maidenpool…" Lord Hoster drummed his fingers on the table. "You know what the Mootons did, Ser? Have you told him, Lord Clement?" He knew. All the Riverlords knew what had happened to those who'd refused Lord Hoster's call five years ago.

"It might mean nothing," his father assured his Lord.

"It means nothing," spoke up Marq insistently, almost shocking himself at his own courage. But it were the Treppindales who now worked there- and it'd been he himself who'd told them about Edmure's need for good men. "Lord Hoster, Maidenpool was… is the finest port in the Riverlands. The Saltpans is barely more than a village. Lord Harroway's Town floods every autumn. Marq said Lord Edmure wanted to start his own merchant fleet; where else can it dock?"

For a moment the two lords stared at him. Until Lord Hoster Tully broke into a bitter laugh. "To be young again! Ha! I learn more about what my own boy is up to from his little lords!"

Marq's ears burnt and he felt Lord Clement's eyes boring into him as he tried to concentrate on the sausage. Lord Hoster went on, "Like the food, Ser? Volantene pepper. No ravens, but fucking Volantene pepper. No doubt Brynden's influence; the man was always a trail- always running around restless across the Riverlands. Cat and Lysa break the water wheel. To the blazes with old Hoster; I'll fix it myself at night. My boy lies in a morass for a week. No need for a rest; let's go cavort around all Westeros."

He took a sip of his wine and winced. To his father's worried look, he explained, "Stomach cramps. Have been having them for some while…Edmure…I knew he was up to something in King's Landing with all the cloth he's been making in Maidenpool and the spices he's been buying. Jon fucking Arryn sent a raven yesterday, saying that my boy returned from his campaign the day before. Yesterday! His first campaign, out at sea with that wretch Stannis battling pirates and foreigners and I hear of it two months after he leaves! A pox on Brynden!" He slammed his fist on the table, making the dishes jump. Marq was startled but his father looked unfazed. Hoster started drumming his fingers again. "Did he tell you about the spice trade, lad?"

"Edmure, my Lord? He didn't."

"Taking on debts from foreigners isn't what a Tully ought to be doing," he gritted his teeth. "I thought he'd settle down once he came of age. No more nightly debauchery, no more whoring at fifteen. Instead he gets up with foreigners."

"My Lord," started Marq hesitantly. Lord Clement frowned, no matter- Marq knew his behaviour had been fairly presumptuous that morning but he felt that someone needed to defend his friend in the latter's absence. On receiving a curt nod form Lord Hoster, he continued. "When my Lord father first heard of my work with the smallfolk, he had been angry as well. But see what happened! We've earned over five thousand dragons more than we had in last spring's harvest. The Vances earned twice as much. And this is not including our returns from wool and flax."

"War and winter, son. Prices would have been high anyway," his father stroked his chin pensively while Lord Hoster frowned.

"But five thousand dragons?" Marq replied triumphantly and cheered within as he saw he was having an effect. "You say the Mootons fought for the dragons. But doesn't a Ryger serve in your own halls? Didn't our ancestors rise under your blood for the Conqueror against Harrenhal as well?" He pressed on recklessly.

"Marq"" His father shouted, alarmed as his words. "Apologize to Lord Hoster this instant."

"He has no need to, Clement," came Lord Hoster's voice. Wrath played upon his brows and his cheeks were flushed but he told Marq, "Go on, son. Not many people tell me off these days after Cat and Brynden left."

Marq's lips were cold as he took a breath. He'd thought long and hard about what Edmure had said that day under the Wierwood tree. "The Redwynes are nothing but overjumped wine merchants, and their ships equal the Royal Fleet in power. The Lannisters maintain a standing force of eight thousand; all the Riverlands combined barely maintain a tenth of that. The North can raise as many as us and the Vale only a little less- but they're defended by their very land while we're open on all sides. You've fought great wars, Lord Hoster. Would you grudge a gilded sword? Would you curse a cheesemonger's coin if it bought you a gilded sword? If gilded swords and a cheesemonger's coin can build walls around Pinkmaiden, why not take them? Money has no smell but weakness is rank enough to bring all the carrion crows of Westeros out to fight over a corpse."

His father was looking at him with narrowed eyes. Lord Hoster worried at a speck of meat caught in his teeth. After he'd extracted it, he spoke. "You're impertinent and rude."

Marq's ears fumed. "I apologize, my Lord. I've disrespected…"

"None of that," Lord Hoster snapped. "To be honest, you remind me of someone. There was this short knight with a chip on his shoulder, a true friend- yes, but a chip on his shoulder the size of this castle. If I'd declared myself king back then, he'd have followed me. No, who am I kidding? He'd have run ahead, screaming his head off and gotten killed by the first dragon he met." Marq turned to look at his father's face- now as flaming red as his hair. "Gods protect you and that stupid boy of mine. You'll have your ruddy ports."

Marq let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding but he noticed his father looked disturbed. "Will that be best, my Lord? The east has many towns and charters; the west only has Fairmarket."

"I will do what is best for my people, Lord Piper," Lord Hoster mused before seeming to come to a decision. He brought out a piece of paper from his pockets and handed it to Lord Clement. "This came today morning, just before you did. Read it," he said.

His father spent a few moments on it before looking up, a queer expression on his face. "Would it be possible?"

"Possible?" Hoster Tully, his brows furrowed in thought, drummed his fingers on the table. "No…I doubt it myself. Jon Arryn has always been a scheming and grasping man. In his hands, Edmure…I would rather not. But he mistakes my brother; Brynden is not one to suffer foolishness. He will stand alone, I know he will. And until Lysa gives him a child, I would rather not antagonize him." He held up his arms. Yohn saw that his fingers were gnarled, marked with brown and red spots and blotches. But he also saw that they were steady as a rock, and the muscles under the wrinkled skin throbbed like the Red Fork flowing beneath them, as Hoster Tully flexed his sword arm. "But I am thirty years his younger. I can wait."

Ser Clement nodded gravely as he hid the paper within the folds of his coat. "Jon Arryn is close to Robert." The two lords seemed to have forgotten he was even in the room with them and Marq felt a curious sensation at the base of his spine.

"Which is why I haven't moved yet. I don't even need to. But a catapult, an elephant and a heavy horse against two heavy horse and… possibly a plodding oaf. Not enough, Lord Piper. I want my spears."

"And not a dragon?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Clement," replied Lord Hoster, flexing his sword hand slowly. "There are no more dragons."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _At Anonymoose's request, I will put appendices from now on. Mention any requests you might have and I will include them if possible. Next time, I'll put in a discussion about a reenactors' view of ships. Ages of important characters (especially OCs) till chapter 16 as of the middle of 290 AC:-_

 _Not!Edmure:- 16_

 _Edmure's friends and family of friends: - Ranging from late 16 to 4._

 _Ser Yohn Piper: - 18_

 _Tiro: - late 14_

 _Lady Aenera Paenymion: - 17_

 _Daeron Bellpiper: - 13_

 _Oswell and Elmo Sattler: - 12_

 _Ser Jon Hoarsmith: - 23_

 _Ser Humfrey Treppindale, the Red Ox: - 54_

 _TheDabblerYargh: You're mostly right. Lizard Point is the tiny island you see on the maps, off the two peninsulas just above the Sea of Myr. From the Lands of Ice and Fire, it's around half the size of Dragonstone. So, it has little farmland and NO supply except for the sea. In theory, provided you spend a lot of money in repairing the place and making a big enough harbour, you can hold it unless attacked by organized naval forces like Pentos and Myr. In chapter 9, Stannis dismisses the idea of holding it outright._

 _I won't say much but here are three points of note: - 1) Narrow Sea pirates have very little organization- unlike pirates in the Basilisk Isles- unless it's the Ironborn (who've been gutted) or a Pirate Lord like Aurane Waters in FoC and 2) The most common ships in the narrow sea are galleys, not sailboats and 3) See what lies on the Westerosi side of the Narrow Sea at Lizard Point._

 _Anonymoose: Edmure imports goods from Stormlands and the Vale, thanks to Cersei's policies. Till now, he only has employed Riverlanders and an ex-slave here or there._

 _Attitudes towards trade in Westeros are fairly region-specific. Tywin looks down on traders but we know he has an academicians understanding of trade (due to his policies as hand) - so it's probably because of his bad experiences with debts and lines of credit. We'd call him a Classical Mercantilist today. The Reach is fairly laissez-faires and so are the houses of the Eastern Riverlands and the Manderlys- though it's mentioned that Northmen look down upon the last. The Vale and the Stormlands are heavily conservative; the Dorne not so much. Crownlands are the shithole we know and love. But, yes- Not!Edmure would've had a TERRIBLE time if he was in the North or the Stormlands or the Westerlands or the Vale. All in all, a similar mixed situation as was in Western Europe during the Late Medieval. Won't spoil anything more._

 _Guest: Excluding the Prologues, ASOIF books typically have NINE to TEN POVs, if not more. I have EIGHT. What on Earth are you complaining about?_


	14. Hawk, Fish, Lion

**TYRION**

 **290 AC**

Lord Tywin had finally given him permission to leave three weeks before the Tourney started at Lannisport. "Your work on the drains has been satisfactory. You leave at dawn. It has been fortunate that I could spare enough men for you at this busy time," He had told Tyrion bluntly while assigning half a dozen red-clad Lannister soldiers for his protection. "There will be enough Lannister guards at the Red Keep to ensure your protection even if the entire Court comes here."

 _We've had thousands of men lying around with nothing to do these few months_ , Tyrion had savagely thought then. The two months Tywin had promised him had turned into three, then four and five and ten until Tyrion was beginning to think that his father had forgotten all about his offer. Then had come the news that Lord Tywin was planning the greatest tourney Westeros had since Harrenhal to celebrate the defeat of the Ironborn.

The rebuilding of Lannisport had been on at full swing, uncle Kevan himself supervising every inch of the repairs and constructions while uncle Gerion was marching all over the Westerlands ensuring the roads and inns were in order. Artisans and Craftsmen from all over the Westerlands had been pressed into service, and the thousands of displaced smallfolk from the War had made eager workers. Lord Tywin was being unexpectedly generous with the doles, waiving off taxes at the port, bringing in vast amounts of grain from the Riverlands and ordering vast heaps of spices from King's Landing, bolts of Myrish silks and lace, the finest filigree screen carvings from Lys- all to impress the knights & lords coming from all across Westeros- and especially the Royal Party itself, travelling from King's Landing to Lannisport via the Gold Road. Tywin had spared no expense and no thought to re-impose the idea of the might & wealth of the Rock upon the rest of the Realm.

Which was why he'd taken thought to quietly send-off Tyrion to his destination via ship in the dead of the night.

 _Probably wished for some enterprising pirate to try his luck,_ Tyrion had thought. Or maybe the Dornish; they had little love for Westerlanders and none for Lannisters. Thankfully for Tyrion, the Stepstones had been free of pirates, and full of merchantmen and Royal ships, and the Dornish were staying low. They had docked at King's Landing after a month and half of sailing only to find an empty Court- and no Jaime, not that Tyrion had expected him to be there. Though that had been little cause for trouble. Tyrion had been greeted according to his status as the King's goodbrother, with Jon Arryn himself coming down to meet him at the docks.

"You would have to forgive me for the lack of ceremony," Jon Arryn had pleasantly remarked when he shook Tyrion's arm; seeming to take as little attention of his height as uncle Kevan or uncle Gerion or poor uncle Tygett. "I have far smaller appetites for them than Robert and Cersei."

Lack of ceremony suited Tyrion fine. All he needed were books and whores and wine and books and whores and some more wine- and all of them were close at hand in the Red Keep. Robert had prodigious appetites: the wines from the Red Keep's larders were the very best from the Arbor and High Hermitage, and even from the Orange shore and Lys, the guards- Lannister and Baratheon alike- took little notice of him which suited Tyrion fine and the whores were delectable- with beauties from as far as the Summer Islands and Yunkai. Some nights he dreamt of Tysha; the Selhorys Greens came in useful those nights. Two glasses and then all would be oblivion until he awoke on sheets drenched with sweat and tears.

He'd mostly kept away from the other high lords at the Red Keep. Most of the Small Council were absent; Ser Barristan was at the Tourney, Pycelle was busy taking care of some ill handmaiden from the Vale, and the Fleet was at Dragonstone, but the Spider had made himself scarce as well- much to the Hand's annoyance as they had still not found a replacement for the Masters of Law and Coin yet.

Tyrion privately suspected Ser Brynden to be getting the position for Master of Law soon with the way the Riverlord was tormenting the Gold Cloaks and riding around, extracting the taxes some of the more recalcitrant Crownlords hadn't been paying Jon. Palace servants still whispered about what the Blackfish had done to a certain Janos Slynt of the City Guard. Tyrion appreciated knowledge- but got the impression that knowing too much in this case would've ruined his digestion. Janos was surprisingly still employed but he'd been stripped of his rank and stationed at Flea Bottom, a reputedly unhealthy part of the City for officials of the Crown.

Brynden's retinue also included his squire- a Perwyn Frey, a green knight from House Vance, and his nephew Edmure Tully, recently returned from Stannis' campaign, about whom Tyrion had been hearing so much about. The Tully group mostly spent their time with the Arryn household in the Hand's Tower with Lysa Tully and interacted little with the Keep's servants- but Tyrion had now cultivated his own little circle of birds among the ones flittering around in the Street of Silk. The brothel trade at King's Landing hadn't been doing too well in recent years and Tyrion found it easy to combine both work and pleasure at fairly nominal prices. What he'd heard in course of his exertions had been interesting enough for him to wake up one morning at the hour of the Cock and half-drag his body to the practice yards in the Outer Keep where Brynden Tully seemed to spend all his hours while at the Red Keep.

He found the Blackfish and Jon Arryn deep in discussion by one of the weapon stands, while Santagar was overseeing the squires. "Is Stannis still smarting?" he heard the Blackfish demand of Jon in an irritated tone.

Jon sighed, "He's a most impossible man! Do you know he has been going around searching ships at random? He even wanted to question Lady Paenymion!"

"Would that you have allowed him," grunted Ser Brynden. "One of my gold Cloaks found one of her creatures bribing a scullery maid." _An interesting person then_ , Tyrion thought _. I ought to introduce her to my sister…Or mayb_ e _not_. Jon Arryn had made quite an impression on him, and he'd hate to have the Hand try and hush up a murder attempt by the Queen. But the discussion sounded interesting and important- far more important than either of them would've shared with a Lannister. Tyrion flattened himself against the wall of the Keep and started edging closer towards the two.

"A fine lad, then."

"No wonder! He's a Crabb I brought here from Crackclaw myself."

Jon's voice betrayed his shock. "You can't fill the Gold Cloaks with your men, Ser! They belong to the Crown."

"A third belong to the Lannisters, a third to me, and the rest to their purses. The Crown has nothing." snarled Ser Brynden. "Pentoshi Spiders own the Red Keep and Essosi whores the City. And now we have the Imp, still slinking around like Varys' second coming. I'll have the bald man's head one of these days, Jon. Him first and then I'll kick the Imp back to Casterly Rock and the Petticoat girl back to her whorehouse in Lys! All of them are in league with each other, mark my words." _In league with whom? What had he done now?_ Tyrion wondered whether Lord Tywin and Ser Brynden had been close during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Jon Arryn grumbled, infuriated at the Blackfish's words "I won't have you insulting foreign lords and ladies, Brynden. I get enough of that from Stannis already."

"Lady!" Brynden barked a harsh laugh. "A little spy come to stalk our City! I'd thought Edmure had sworn off whores!"

"One swallow does not…Lord Tyrion, my apologies! I didn't notice you!" Jon Arryn exclaimed as he finally noticed him sneaking edgeways towards them. _Clumsy_ , his instincts screamed at him, and he hopped into view about the corner and marched towards them, a song on his lips and his heart turning cartwheels in fright. Though Arryn didn't look like he had suspected anything. The Blackfish was another story- but then again Tyrion suspected the man to be a misanthrope.

"Easy for great men to miss a small man, my Lords," he said with a grin on his lips as he bowed to the two in succession. Old Arryn looked as genial and grandfatherly as ever; Brynden just started at him with narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

"Very fortunate to see you about at such an early hour, Lord Tyrion," he remarked in a voice dripping with suspicion. "I didn't know you were fond of waking up with the sun."

"That is true. Like fine wine, my good Ser, I believe the day improves with age," Tyrion laughed.

"It is good to see you about, Lord Tyrion. Why not break your fast together with us?" Lord Arryn tried to lighten the moment. "I am sorry we've been such terrible hosts but duties have been pressing. How do you find our City?"

 _Filthy and Rotten_ , thought Tyrion. "A jewel on the face of Westeros."

"A pox on the face of Westeros. He means it's packed with liars and cheesemongers," Ser Brynden said drily. "The liars at least pretend to abide the law; the cheesemongers?" He shook his head.

 _Can't argue with that_ , thought Tyrion but was wise enough not to say that to Jon Arryn's sad face. He had seen the great Volantene trade galleys, more than half bearing the Chrysanthemum crest of the Paenymion Heptarchate and the Red Swallowtail butterfly of the House of Staegone, in the harbour - bearing oranges and olives from the sandy orchards of Orange Coast, saffron and ivory from Yi Ti, apricots and dates from the banks of the Rhoyne; matched in size only by the purple-sailed Braavosi ones, the Claw-and-Lily of the Ormollen Serenate, the two-headed Seahawk of the House of Saar, and those from nearby Pentos.

Though the last had been finding it rough sailing in recent days because the markets of the city had been lately flooded with linen, wools, and flax- dyed similarly, if not as cleanly, as those of Pentos but only a third of the price- and ' _made by honest Westerosi_ ' as Bella at the _Silent Dancer_ had told him about her new camisole when they'd lain together one night after love-making. There were dozens of sullen, irritable Pentoshi merchants in the city's inns these past few moons. _And dozens of tiny arguments and quarrels and stabbings on the docks_ , thought Tyrion as he recalled what he'd been hearing in the whorehouses of the City. The Gold Cloaks might have been overwhelmed by the chaos already, Tyrion had heard, if not for the new influx of soldiers in recent weeks as well as Ser Brynden's personal courage. The Tully knight had cracked down hard on dissent and chaos- enforcing laws, increasing the number of soldiers at the Throne's disposal, conducting marches in strength to cow potential rioters _. A year like this_ , Tyrion believed, _and he'll have made a Lannisport of this dung heap_ …

"The cheesemongers, Brynden, are the reason we even are staying afloat," gritted out the Hand, "Do you have any idea what the state of the Treasury was in before Edmure came here two years ago?"

The Blackfish snapped, "I don't. Surprise me."

"Brynden, I don't think …"

"My lords, if I may…" Tyrion tried to interject but was ignored.

"And I think I made a mistake by bringing the boy here," grimaced Ser Brynden Blackfish, his tone rising in timbre and volume every minute. "But Hoster was going on and on about marriage after the boy woke up and I couldn't refuse Edmure when he asked me to intercede for him. Hoster will have his archers shot me next time I show my face at Riverrun. Then he'll marry my corpse off to some Redwyne or Stokeworth. And you encouraging Edmure like this is worse. Stannis…"

"Lord Stannis has returned victorious from his campaign. He is at Dragonstone and Edmure will be back with us shortly," responded the Hand wearily. "Brynden, you don't understand. The Throne is in dire need of coin. The expenses- tourneys every month, the reams of Silk and Samite ordered by the Queen, your Gold Cloaks…"

"My Gold Cloaks?"

"Yes, yours. Six thousand Gold Cloaks are twice as many I am willing to pay for," Jon Arryn hissed. "I have long been patient with you and your hatred for the Throne's policies on Treasury. I ignored your resignation last year even though you were sworn to me. I have long been trying to convince you to take the seat for Master of Law. I cannot rule the Realm by myself- and you owe me, Ser!"

"Damn you, Jon!" spat Brynden so loudly and viciously that even Aron Santagar and the squires stopped in their sparring to look at them. "Damn you and your Bloody Gate and those savages you rule over! I'll take your bloody Council Seat! I'll take it and gods save this wretched City when I'm done with it."

Tyrion and Jon Arryn watched him storm off. Jon sighed, "I'm sorry you had to see that, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion was still recovering from the sight he'd just seen. "None needed, my Hand," he stammered. "But if you would excuse me, what was that?"

Jon Arryn said slowly, his voice strangely weary. "Nothing very vexing, my Lord. I had recently signed a contract to buy meat for the Crown from Riverlands with Ser Hugo Vance on behalf of Lord Edmure. It's just that…Ser Brynden doesn't think it to have been very wise."

Tyrion tried to imagine what Lord Tywin Lannister would do if he heard that he had opened his own brothel. _Then again, Family, Duty, Honour are the Tully words, aren't they_? "Very interesting, my Lord Hand" Tyrion exclaimed. "How many dragons is Lord Edmure saving you?"

"It's actually earn, not save," Jon Arryn corrected him. "First we signed a contract for the next five years for the Crown to buy cattle at four-fifths the current market rate from him."

"But don't meat and horseflesh grow cheaper come summer?" wondered Tyrion. _Maybe the boy had a certain low cunning after all…_

"And if summer lasts a mere year or two?" parried Jon Arryn dismissively. "I hadn't finished yet, Lord Tyrion. I had the same doubt as you back then. So, I also wrangled from Ser Hugo- or rather Tiro- a share of the ships they're buying as well as a small return from their trade in Orange wine. If I had a Master of Law and a Master of Coin, such decisions could've been discussed properly but Brynden!" He shrugged his shoulders.

Their breakfast was quiet and subdued. Lord Arryn had been in deep thought throughout the meal, only conversing with Tyrion once or twice about his family and how the Westerlands were doing after the Rebellion. He remarked once that he and his wife were trying for a son again, and that he was thinking of appointing an acquaintance of hers- some Valelord named Baelish Tyrion had never heard of- as Master of Coin soon. _No doubt father would dance to hear another Tully-Arryn lackey is in Court. That reminds me I need to find my sister's creatures soon._ Tyrion doubted Cersei's disdain for him had lessened over the years. At least the chances that a Tully lick-spittle would try to murder him in his sleep were low...

He had been deep in thought on the way back to his rooms when he nearly ran into a thick fat pillar of orange-red velvet and silk. "A good morning to you, Lord Tyrion," greeted Lord Varys.

 _Eunuch_ , thought Tyrion with his heart in his mouth. _Where did he come from!_ Outwardly though, Tyrion gave little sign of his consternation. He said genially, "Lord Varys. Ser Brynden was remembering you a few minutes ago."

The spymaster shrugged, "Our dear Ser Brynden Tully! Some malicious individual has been telling tales about me. Can you imagine the villainy?"

 _I'm seeing it_. "Then it's fortunate we have the valiant Blackfish to guard us from such blackguards."

"Indeed, yes. His cunning and valour are well known. But come, my Lord- surely he hasn't been the fish you have been eyeing for so long?"

 _Time to patronize a new brothel, eh_ , wondered Tyrion. _I knew King's Landing was dangerous…but._ He had underestimated the Spider; probably it was time to try out Chattaya's. The whores at a quality establishment would be more discrete for the price- but gold was something no Lannister ever lacked. He said aloud, "Indeed, Lord Varys. But I've not started my enquiries yet, as you already know." The eunuch didn't look like one of Cersei's pawns though. If Tyrion had to guess, he'd have picked Pycelle.

The serene smile on the eunuch's face widened. "The lack of confidants in a strange City can be a trail, my Lord. I myself often wonder how difficult such a life would be." _Much like yours, I guess. Can't even fuck a girl; poor man._ "It has been such good fortune for the Lady Paenymion to have found Lord Edmure in this grim City."

 _Lady Penny-what?,_ wondered Tyrion for a second before recalling what Ser Brynden and Jon Arryn had been talking about. A mistress then? Or simply a whore? He hadn't taken Ser Brynden's angry words seriously then; Westerosi often dismissed all Lyseni women as whores outright because of the city's reputation for training pleasure slaves. "I have heard the name," he slowly said.

It was then that the eunuch carelessly said, "Then might it interest you to know that the Lady Paenymion, confidant of Ser Edmure, has relations in Tyrosh. And some birds may have been heard singing that dragons were seen there not a moon past?"

 _Dragons? What on Earth…_ "Gods!" Tyrion exclaimed, his eyes wide as saucers. "Does the Hand know?"

"The Hand has no need for rumours, alas!" sang Lord Varys before he bent his waist to meet Tyrion eye-to-eye and covered his mouth with his oversized sleeves. "Come, my Lord. Maybe a walk by the river someday? I've found quiet contemplation to be often a balm for troubled minds… "

"But…why…why are you telling me this?" stammered Tyrion.

"Because my Lord of Lannister," came the same serene voice. "Sometimes the actions of cheesemongers might move lions as much as they move dragons. And sometimes…it might be the actions of she-lions that move the cheesemongers."

* * *

 _Since all the POVs are addressing the situations through their respective biases, (lack of) knowledge, and the timespans involved, I understand it might be an issue to keep track of each character's different perspective on things. I'm thinking of putting a very bulky exposition chapter next. Also as ThrangailAesir recommended, I's also thinking of using the 9th and last POV I was saving for Arys Oakheart for someone more intimately associated with the story. As TA said, Aenera would be the best candidate and while I have to change a few details in the storyline to insert her in, I don't think it will be a big problem. Inserting Aenera's POV will give a look at how Essosi politics is, how trade provides political power and how Edmure's changes are affecting the Narrow Sea power structure._

 _If no one has any problems, I'll go along with this. If you have any other recommendations (except for Edmure), please mention them in the reviews. Chapter 17 will feature either this new one or the start of Ned's Northern Campaign in response to a gathering of Wildlings at the Bight of Storrold._


	15. The Red Ox

**YOHN**

 **290 AC**

Lord Mooton was older than he'd imagined; older and shorter and simpering weakly like an old woman throughout.

"I have followed Ser Edmure's orders to the utmost, my Lord. My eldest boy, a fine lad, only nine but loyal and brave, he guards the berths himself." _Not alone, I hope_ , thought Yohn. He didn't like the look of most of the King's Landing sailors. If he was to get up with trade, Yohn decided that he'd need good men, local men, whom he could trust. Lord Mooton was still blabbering at his side. "We don't have enough pilots, please tell Ser Edmure that. There's this big sandbar right off the coast. One of those foreign ships nearly went down there a month back and few even understood our words." Yohn couldn't see any 'foreign' ships at harbour though; the cogs and small galleys at anchor all looked like local vessels, some possibly from Gulltown in the Vale. In the distance, a large trade galley with a butterfly marked upon a white sail was sailing up the river. Lord Mooton pointed at it, "Those are funny people, Ser. All flowery tongue but their sailors are the strangest I've ever seen. They do not enter any taverns, do not gamble, do not whore…"

 _They're crewed by slaves_ , thought Yohn. _Have you never left your tiny town all your life?_ "Lord Mooton, surely they do pay good price for your grain and cloth."

Lord Mooton seemed to relax at this, and for the first time that morning, the look on his face like that of a startled deer lifted. "Yes, yes, fair prices indeed. I'd been at a loss what to do with the grain for some time- what with Gulltown raising taxes on our wheat. Do tell Ser Edmure about their villainy! Never had I heard such things, Ser, never."

Yohn had heard similar words barely two weeks ago. Lord Clement had told him to expect one of Lord Bracken's cousins- but instead it had been Lord Bracken himself who'd turned up. The short-tempered lord had been polite at first but he'd grown more and more agitated as Yohn had shown them their fields and cattle as well as the new levees and machines being raised. "Has there been any want in our service, Ser Yohn, that Lord Hoster hasn't shared with us these methods? I'd heard Lucas Blackwood had been making new levees not three days past." he'd demanded with a strange expression on his face. Yohn had meet few lords and had never spoken to one before the past week- let alone two as inimical as Lords Blackwood and Bracken- so he had decided to deflect Lord Bracken's charge. "Lord Edmure was the one who had given Marq these instructions. Only the houses of his close friends have carried such changes out, maybe a few others who copied from us. We at Pinkmaiden have had no word from Lord Hoster yet. As for Lord Blackwood…my Lord, he simply happened to be nearer to us." Yohn didn't know whether he'd managed to calm the man but at least, he'd not pressed the issue.

Lord Bracken had been further surprised to learn that Ser Edmure had been at King's Landing the past year rather than Riverrun and promised to send ravens to both places and ask his liege lord and heirs their reasons directly.

Yohn wondered why Gulltown had raised taxes when they were having such brisk trade already. They passed a drunk lying on the streets. _Come to think of it_ , thought Yohn as they climbed a short stretch of stairs to come out on the waterfront, _the town does look a fair bit less organized and battered than Fairmarket in the north._ "The town watch doesn't look very active, Lord Mooton," he complained to the frowning lord.

"It's been all the smallfolk rushing into my town, Ser," Lord Mooton replied quickly, wringing his wrinkled hands in helplessness. "When they heard I am hiring spinners, all the smallfolk from the villages, their husbands, their wives, their sheep, their children…Oh! It has been a nightmare, Ser. I do apologize. But I've ensured Lord Edmure's spinning yards and berths are always spic-and-span. My boy ensures it, him and Bellows, though it has been a great help since Ser Treppindale arrived. Ah, there's my boy!"

Lord Mooton's son was a skinny lad of around eight in a dirty green tunic and carrying a short dirk which Yohn doubted he knew how to use. The short frog-like old man standing near him, tearing petals of a white rose he held, could only be Bellows. They were standing near a cart laden with barrels of wine, _Summer's Daughter Orange Wine_ prominently visible upon their labels. There were a few ships anchored at the berths- but most of them were small cogs and fishing skiffs.

The boy and the servant bowed low when they came up to them. Yohn doubted either of them would've been of much use defending the place from any would-be bandits, especially in a town filling up with smallfolk but held his tongue.

"Sam," Lord Mooton's eyes shown with pride. "This is Ser Yohn Piper. He is Lord Clement's nephew, fought at Harlaw in the Iron Isles last year." Yohn felt hot under his collar when he saw the hero-worship in the boy's eyes. _Wasn't much of a fight_ , he wanted to say, _Lord Harlaw struck his banners when we came. Apart from a few motte-and-bailey and wooden keeps, we did nothing at all_. "Hello, young lord," he greeted the boy as he shook his hand. "Good of you to start your duties to your lords at such a young age." _There, that seems to have flattened our good fat lord…_

Lord Mooton forced a smile onto his face as Yohn straightened. He asked Bellows, "Have you seen Ser Humfrey anywhere?"

The workman Bellows had the vacant look of the mildly retarded, Yohn thought. His suspicions appeared to be confirmed as Bellows stuck a finger into his nostril and stared at them blankly, before slowly turning his head backwards to the left. In the distance there stood a massive knight in the shade of an anchored cog, his head bare but for two great iron-grey sideburns, skipping stones into the slow waters of the Trident.

"That is Ser Humfrey, Ser Yohn," said lord Mooton, pointing out the man.

Yohn nodded his gratitude and made to go but Lord Mooton touched his hand gently. "Please forgive Bellows," requested Lord Mooton, "Poor Bellows used to manage our gardens once. My Lady mother didn't have the heart to throw him out when she was regent. Neither did I."

"What happened to him?" asked Yohn.

"The war in the Stepstones," said Lord Mooton quietly. "My lord father sent three hundred men. I brought back a fifth of them. Bellows was one."

 _But he said his lady mother…_ "If you don't mind, my Lord, you couldn't have been older than Sam here then."

Lord Mooton shook his head, "Seven. I was squire to my lord father. He'd told me to stay but Myles had just been born and I'd wanted him to be proud of his brother when he grew up. We were in Lord Stokeworth's company that day at Grey Gallows when they ordered the charge. Someone had made a mistake; we ended up caught in a hedge, penned by Ser Harker's halberds and our infantry crossed along with us. When Apple…my pony you see, was killed, I dismounted and hacked a hole into the hedge and stayed there for two nights until Ser Steffon came…We crushed Ser Harker though. I was in the van, saw Ser Gerold take his head myself. Then when I had done my duty to the Realm, I gathered all the brave men we still had left and came home. I was lucky, very lucky, Ser. Poor Bellows…" He glanced to where Bellows was walking Sam back to the castle.

To this, Yohn had no words. He shook Lord Mooton's hand silently and watched as the old Lord bowed and hurried off after his son and his servant.

"Liked our prize Lord Mooton?" asked Ser Treppindale as Yohn reached him. He wore heavy furs even though there was barely a nip in the air, and a coat of blackened ringmail below them. A weather-beaten threadbare white surcoat, yellowed by age, was on his chest- depicting a red bull in front of black pines. A greatsword in a cracked leather & wooden sheath was at his back and a long dagger was tied at his waist with a frayed piece of rope.

"He has been very helpful," admitted Ser Yohn hesitantly.

The Red Ox grunted as he sent another stone flying into the distance, "Scared out of his mind, the traitor…And why not? You're here."

"Me?" Yohn exclaimed. _What had he done to warrant such dread?_

"Not five years, Mooton's family rebelled against and was scourged by his liege lord. Now, he has a single Stone tower in the middle of a city filled with guildsmen and chartered traders who owe him little, and his lands extend from the town walls only as far as he can piss. An year ago, the heir of the same Lord turns up in his city, starts calling for land and men and spinners, has ships dock there each day and strange knights sent here from Lord Hoster's strongholds in the West. Today, you arrive- a Piper knight with five guardsmen and fresh off the war. Him and happy, ha!"

"I thought he was on board with Edmure's actions." Yohn watched another stone skip on the water twice…thrice…five times and sink into the blue-brown depths.

"He likes the gold, yes, and the grain- but the man is terrified of what the Tullys might do to him next. He was always the craven of his family. I remember his brother- wild that one was. But brave. Wild and brave."

And dead. Myles Mooton had squired and been knighted by Rhaegar Targaryen himself, and there had been no finer lance in the Riverlands nor a better rider than the second son of Walder Mooton. But that was until he came up against Robert during the Battle of the Bells. As the tolling of the bells had filled the evening sky, the King had smashed his chest in- just like he'd break Rhaegar Targaryen a fortnight later.

The great trade vessel had neared the berth. Like magic, stevedores and porters sprang up among them and rushed around with ropes and hooks and ladders. A pilot rushed by them, his white and red Maidenpool cap signifying his rank. Treppindale pointed out to Yohn the techniques of how the pilot leapt onto the dinghy and was halfway to the trade galley within a few minutes. "This city can't handle as many ships as it does- especially if more of those big foreign galleys arrive," the Red Ox said as they watched the pilot clamber onto the galley.

"You seem hopeful about Ser Edmure's plans," smiled Yohn wanly.

The Red Ox shrugged his great shoulders. "The little lord's plans are fine, I have seen that with my own eyes. But they are a bit too good for how things are. It's been two years and six harvests since master Marq and the little lord started their games. Grain is cheap now; it was always cheap during summer but it's cheaper than ever and I've seen more than fifty years. We used to send it to King's Landing earlier but now there's just too much grain around. It's all going to rot on the docks."

"Strange to see someone protesting the excess of grain, Ser," was Yohn's flippant reply. "One would've thought no one went hungry in the Riverlands anymore."

The Red Ox grumbled. "The more grain we have, the less coin the peasants get. The less they get, the fewer taxes we earn. And then there are the hordes streaming over from the Westerlands and the villages near the Mountains of the Moon. The Leffords, Westerlings, they will not like it; neither will the Freys- but piss on old Walder anyway."

Yohn blinked. "Isn't it good to have more smallfolk in our lands?"

"More smallfolk also mean less land for them to farm, more banditry, less workfolk for the marcher lords, more demands on Riverrun for aid and men by their bannermen. It'd been fine if we could send more of our grain away to the Reach or somewhere but we have no ships!"

Yohn could barely believe his ears. He turned and saw the huge galley bearing towards the docks. And then he looked at the painfully earnest florid face of the old knight. He pointed a finger at the Essosi vessel. "Ser, do you mark that thing? Is it not a ship?"

"Would be hard to miss it with the hundreds of oars and big butterflies on the big sails."

"What's wrong with it then?" demanded Ser Yohn. "Why can't you send over grain in that?"

"A might fine question, young Ser. Pray guess how much cargo that one holds?"

"Not a clue. Five hundred tons?" Yohn replied.

The Red Ox shook his grizzled head, "No. A ship like that? Probably fifty tons. Maybe less."

"What!" Yohn exclaimed as he rushed to the very edge of the water for a better look. The ship in front of them was huge. A triple-decked galley with almost 30 oars on each deck on each separate side, it was divided into three parts like most large trade galleys in the Narrow Sea: a fighting platform in the bow- essential as trade galleys often doubled up as wargalleys during wars, a larger and higher stern castle for the Captain's quarters, and between them- the space for the rowers, the stand for the stroke-master and his drum, and a gangway. Six times longer than it was wider, the galley also carried two lateen sails, and Yohn knew that below the waterline, were the holds in which plied the commerce of the world. As he watched, the oars slowly dipped and started to turn the mighty boat. He imagined the men, hundreds of them, straining to…

"I see," he said more to himself than the Red Ox. "Now I see. The ship carries more grain to feed the rowers than it carries as goods."

"Maidenpool is a rather poor port," observed the Red Ox as he threw his final stone into the Trident. "The Free City it is closest to is Braavos, and there Gulltown wins over us. It is as far from Pentos as King's Landing but King's Landing is bigger. But forget all that- it takes twice as much time to go to King's Landing by galley from here than it takes by bullock cart. The harbour is too deep for galley to be unloaded and sometimes when there are storms up in the Vale, they come down here and gods protect any of these big trade ships caught in them. You'll hear Mooton whine that Maidenpool was never given any city charters; how in the Mother's name, would they even get any?"

The galley docked. Dozens of stevedores started throwing ropes, hooks, onto the deck while the sailors helped them up and brought up ramps. Aboard were dozens, hundreds of barrels- each bearing on its lid a great circle of yellowish paper with tiny writing upon them. Behind them were great crates bearing the same paper circle. Yohn saw a shutter on the hull slide open and a green face pop out and vomit all over the side. "Slaves, they are," the Red Ox answered his unspoken question. "Never seen one before?"

"I'd seen thralls on the Iron Isles," said Yohn as he looked at the rail-thin skeleton of a man, his kin covered with salt sores and red sunburns. "But so close to home, no…" The slave lifted his head, their eyes met, and like a mouse scurrying into its burrow, the shutter slammed shut.

"When you meet the little lord, tell him this, Ser Yohn," said the Red Ox, still staring at the floating mausoleum of grief in front of them. "Mooton might be too chicken or too grasping to tell him the truth- but Lord Edmure's never going to get his fine ideas to last in this place."


	16. The Gold Price

**DAVOS**

 **290 AC**

Due west lay King's Landing like an open wound, the reek of its slums and sewers broiling in the mid-day sun like a thousand rotting carcasses. The Blackwater shone like a broken piece of glass, scorching the eyes of anyone who dwelt too long about it, and despite the early hour, the sea breeze that filled the sails of his cog appeared to have come from a potter's furnace. As they neared the shore, the detritus of a million sins became visible- a bloated corpse of a naked woman, green and buzzing with flies, a tub full of suds and muddy river water, a dead dog with its fur long gone and maggot writhing on the slash across its belly like tiny pups at theirs mother's teats.

Davos filled his lungs. It was good to be home.

The air was better at the stern castle, cooler. Lord Edmure was leaning at the railing above; he nodded when Davos came up. He was carving a piece of soft balsa into a toothed wheel with a Valyrian steel hunting knife he'd acquired from a slain pirate- something Davos had seen him do often when the Riverlord wasn't asking questions about Sailing, the Stormlands, Davos' childhood at King's Landing, the sailors. When Davos had told him of his children, he'd carved a few toys from some of the balsa they kept at hand for repairs at sea, some spare steel shavings the fleet blacksmith had lying around and a delicate jar of silver filigree they'd taken in one of the skirmishes; wondrous automatons which moved when wound, whose like Davos had never seen.

Lord Edmure had been tight-lipped when he'd happened to ask him how he'd learnt to make them so Davos had thought it wise not to push him. Nevertheless, he'd accepted Lord Edmure's offer to visit his 'factories'- probably some Riverlander slang for warehouses- in Maidenpool soon. Lord Stannis had taken little interest in the lad's offers, barely acknowledging his invitation that the gates of Riverrun would always be open for the Lord of Dragonstone should he chanced to pass by, but Davos had promised to do so when he chanced to go north. Little chance of such coming to pass, he knew, but he'd come to like the inquisitive, friendly knight- so different from most high-born folk he'd met.

Above them, the dark monolith that was the Red Keep loomed like the shadow of a dragon even though they were yet several minutes away from the anchorage near the Mud Gate. Aegon the Conqueror might've made the City but it had Maegor who'd built the towers and turrets that cemented the bloody shadows of Targaryen rule over the City and beyond it, the Continent.

They were slowing down now. Aegon's high hill flew by them to their right and they could see the very names painted onto the sides of the boats and ships that choked the mouth of the Blackwater at all hours.

"Ser Davos, I would be honoured if you would dock your boat at my manor," offered Lord Edmure. "Without the Royal Fleet, there's little reason for you to run docking costs inside the city harbour."

"I am honoured, my Lord," Davos gruffly replied. "But Lord Stannis has commanded me to carry his reports to the Hand and return as soon as did."

Lord Edmure laughed as he jerked his thumb to astern. "Take his reports to the Hand, Ser- not to the Hand's bed. Sun is astern and barely above the water. Come break your fast with us and meet my fr… retainers and bannermen. The raven at Stonedance had informed me that our little establishment has grown these past two months."

"Any sailors among them, My Lord?" asked Davos. _My Lord, not milord_ , he'd learnt that well over the years.

"Tiro didn't say," replied Lord Edmure, "But no matter. I've braved pirates and hurricanes. One man is better than none." Davos was mildly amused at this and could barely suppress his smile. Nobody could doubt Ser Edmure's skill with a crossbow and his ability with aiming the ballistae was uncanny- but Davos also distinctly remembered him throwing up and crying for the gods almost all throughout their passage through Shipbreaker Bay. Davos had wisely kept him out of Lord Stannis' way throughout and had thanked the Warrior that the gods had given the Riverlord his sea-legs by the time they were ready to start in earnest.

"A bad sailor is better than no sailor, Ser," japed Lord Edmure when he saw propriety wrestle with amusement on Davos' face.

"I apologize, my Lord. It was not my intention to offend," replied Davos as fast as he could _. It won't do to forget that they are high lords, not my men_ …

"None taken, Ser," Edmure waved his apology off, "But then I must insist you dock at my harbour. My men will be glad to see a true sailor- or at least one who isn't trying to rip us off."

The harbours were small- with only three berths capable of holding the great trade galleys of the Free Cities, doubtless made by Bronzegate when they owned the place- but there were two more under construction at the minute, one of them near completion. Smaller berths made of wood and mud had also been raised and great wooden ramps were being rolled into place by burly stevedores in preparation of the day's commerce. Two small galleys were at anchor at the minute, one bearing the Seahawk of Saar and the other a local.

Lord Edmure's eyes were shining with delight as he took in the view. "They've been hard at work. I see a new barn as well. I hope Tiro has expanded the basements like I'd told him."

Davos had struck the Tully banner alongside his own while drawing up to harbour, and so they'd been met at their berth by people apart from the usual stevedores. There were two young lads, one with dirty blond hair wearing a red and blue tunic featuring the Tully trout and a red-haired boy in a plain brown tunic and a Pinkmaiden cloak, a tall and thin red-haired man-barely twenty if Davos guessed- in leather armour, and two young boys. Behind them was a Gold Cloak as well, the black and gold feather stuck in his half-helm denoting him to be of high rank. As Edmure sorted his effects, Davos called out to the waiting stevedores not to bother with the ramps and ropes; they carried no goods for trade. They docked quickly, and the sailors- finally at home from more than two gruelling months at sea, swarmed onto the gangway.

Greetings were exchanged and Davos found himself being introduced in quick succession to Ser Willem of Fairdyme, his squire Daeron Bellpiper, the Sattler twins- squires to Ser Hugo Vance of the Goldcloaks, and…"Ser Davos, this is Tiro- the one really responsible for handling the trade here."

Tiro was the boy in the Tully tunic; he was of middling height, probably a year away from being of age, and of unremarkable bearing. Over his tunic, he wore several leather pouches and on his waist was a dirk handing from a frog. "Hello, Ser Davos," greeted the boy cheerfully as they shook hands; the accent had been worn smooth but was clearly from the hills of Andalos, "I hope both of you are hungry. We've been waiting for you." A group which believed in early starts, Davos approved of such people.

"Ah…Tiro, Ser Willem," Lord Edmure interrupted them, "Aene…she isn't here, is he?"

Ser Willem and Tiro grinned. Ser Hugo told them, "Probably still asleep. Her slaves are probably spying on us even now but I doubt they'll risk waking her up. By the Seven, Edmure- you should've stayed here instead of going off to experience naval combat or whatever it was you were up to…"

"Why? What happened?" was Lord Edmure's bemused reply.

Ser Hugo licked his lips lightly, "Let's just say she hasn't taken the news of the Machine very well."

Lord Edmure and Tiro exchanged looks. "Well, I guess she'll like what is to come even less," Lord Edmure said slowly. "Let's eat. Hugo has his duties under uncle after all."

"That is true…err…Edmure, your uncle's been made Master of Law."

"God save us!" cursed Lord Edmure, "He's going to hang half the City now. Anyhow…Ser Willem, lead the way! Ah, I forget! Tiro, my sulphur…"

"Four sacks of Nitre are in the outhouse, my Lord. The Sulphur in one of the cellars."

"Perfect!" purred Lord Edmure happily, rubbing his palms in satisfaction as most of them looked on in confusion. Davos guessed that Tiro was rather higher up in Lord Edmure's confidence than the others. But nitre? Davos had heard of farmers on Dragonstone using it as fertilizer for their crops… _But how can Lord Edmure grow crops near King's Landing if he holds no lands there?_

Daeron raised the question all of them were thinking, "Lord Edmure, are you planning to repeat the miracle at Pinkmaiden here at the Capital as well?"

"Here? Hardly! I'm a Riverlands man through and thorough" answered Lord Edmure carelessly as he gestured Hugo to lead the way to the manor.

The dining halls for the high-born and Tiro were within the very depths of the manor and yet Davos noted Ser Willem and Ser Hugo carefully checked the corridors for eaves-droppers before their meal started. The six of them broke their fast on hard bread and fresh fish stew along with Pentoshi cheese and fresh blackberries, and beer freshly brewed from Riverlands barley.

The fare was also simple but filling. When he asked, young Daeron told him that one of the clerks at the warehouse had some experience working in an inn in his boyhood and cooked for the Riverlanders- the twenty five who lived in the manor itself. When Davos had remarked that it was a fairly large operation already by Westerosi standards, Ser Willem shook his head. "We lack men for everything, Ser. Lord Edmure, it would be helpful if we had more merchant clerks; the four and me, Daeron and Tiro are too few for the growing business- especially as we have keep a lettered man at the Machine at all times."

"We will, we will," Lord Edmure drummed his fingers on the table. "Did the labels work?"

The grins across the table were infectious. Tiro informed him and Lord Edmure, "Better than we could've imagined. We've nearly driven the Heptarchate out of the King's Landing market." All of a sudden, he snarled viciously with eyes burning with rage and victory. "Those sons of whores will pay for scrubbing us raw all this time!"

"They will, Tiro, they will," murmured Lord Edmure. "Who's writing the words for the labels these days?"

"I do, my Lord," said the young knight, Ser Willem hesitantly. "I also took the liberty of also making up a sigil of our own though, my Lord. The smallfolk can't read but they'll know to buy the Winged Trident. I thought it might've been a bit presumptuous but all of us agreed that it would work…"

"Sounds like some Manderly shit," remarked Lord Edmure, a curious look in his eyes. "But why? We're the only ones to put labels on our bottles and crates, aren't we! And word of mouth has ensured even smallfolk know us!"

Tiro broke in, "The Saar are offering us a star for each label we print for them. If we agree, that sigil would be needed to distinguish us from them."

For a few moments, Lord Edmure was staring at them with his mouth open. Suddenly, he exclaimed, "You guys are fucking geniuses at Branding!"

"Brand what?" spat out Ser Hugo, bread crumbs flying from his mouth.

"I've not seen many cows. Only Harry but he's a bull…" mused Tiro, more to himself than to the gathering.

"Not Harry! He…" snarled Edmure before seeming to come to a decision. He suddenly turned onto Davos, "Lord Davos, if you were at war, and had to serve the best man, the man most likely to win, who would you serve? Lord Tyrell with eighty thousand men or Lord Stannis with forty?"

"Lord Stannis. There is no finer man in the Seven Kingdoms," was the obvious, albeit puzzled, reply.

"So would I," beamed Lord Edmure. "As a man's acts and nature make up his renown, why not the same for wine or cloth? Here are we honest Riverlanders- whose merchants bow to King Robert, whose workers worship at the Great Sept, whose owners believe in giving Westeros Westerosi wine and cloth. How can some foreigners even compare! We are Westerosi and sell fine wine and good cloth to Westerosi. That is our identity- as much as the labels on our drinks or Willem's Winged Trident. This is all there is Branding!"

"So, Branding is a mark of what we are, who we are…" muttered Ser Hugo.

"Like the Eagle for Lord Arryn and the Trout for your House, my Lord." Tiro was almost jumping in excitement. "Now I understand!"

"Not only that," clarified Lord Edmure further. "The words, the actions, the beliefs- all this make up a Brand. House Lannister's Brand is for their wealth and their ambition and the dread they inspire after what happened to the Reynes and Tarbecks. House Arryn's Brand stands for their honour and valour and their Andal heritage. Ours is the same. But Aenera has no Brand. How can she? Men will not follow her- no more than they would follow an unknown knight's banner in battle. And if men won't touch anything but our Brand, why shouldn't an innkeeper or a petty merchant pay for ours over hers?"

Some of the people started nodding but Davos could see that the younger boys looked as confused as he was feeling. Young Elmo pipped up, "Tiro, is that why we've been paying criers and farriers and mummers so much? To make sure they tell everyone about us?"

Tiro answered, "We are. I had the joys of our wines and clothes extolled throughout the Realm- and our opponents were helpless without the Machine! Aenera couldn't break the contract- and the only way she knew to get back at us was by lowering the prices. And when she did, the City saw what we wrote was true, that the wine without our seal was cheap pigswill."

Davos protested, "But it would've tasted the same!"

Lord Edmure explained, "Lord Stannis wears a helm of steel and Lord Tyrell a helm of gold. We know Lord Stannis, Ser Davos- you and I- but who do more people follow, Ser? Appearances matter. Tiro, how much do we profit from every cask we sell now?"

The boy bowed and produced a sheet from one of the many pouches at his waist. "A quarter of a dragon for the Volantene Orange. The same for the Persimmon. The Lyseni wines give us four stags but the Selhorys Pale Green earns a whole dragon. There are also the contracts for the spiced wines from the breweries at King's Landing. On all, we pay a fourth as the customary tax and the tenth the Lord Hand had asked for- so in total, about four hundred dragons each day from the wine- and that is without the profits from the Silks and Cloth or the Stockpiles in the Cellar."

There was silence. Ser Hugo was shaking his head as if unable to believe his ears. Ser Willem's mouth was hanging open- as was his squire's. Davos realized that none of them, apart from Lord Edmure and Tiro, had really known the value of their actions until now. He heard Ser Willem stammer, "Is…Is it true…? Four hundred dragons...a day? Are the…the accounts correct?"

"They are. Double Entry Bookkeeping is far superior to old Master Garraphos' methods," answered Tiro, content as a cat, as he tucked his notes safely inside his pouches. "Another one of our Lord's miracles." He bowed to Lord Edmure, a smile of pride and triumph on his face, who took it as his cue to speak.

"Gentlemen, Lord Davos" he said as he stood up, "In this room, we represent the interests of not only two powerful Houses but also those of Riverrun and Dragonstone. As Tiro said, we now profit by over twelve thousand dragons each month." He grabbed his half-full tankard of beer in front of him and chugged it in one motion, as if steeling himself for something. "But this is over the debt I owe to Aenera for two hundred and eighteen thousand dragons. So, my question to you all is this. How much of my debt would you be willing to buy?"

Silence rang about the room like a great horn's blowing. Davos heard someone cough. He himself could scarcely believe his ears. Twelve thousand dragons…the equivalent of a standing army fifteen thousand strong. Two hundred thousand dragons debt… _I have heard of entire Kingdoms being bankrupted with so much_ …

He heard himself breaking the silence. "Lord Edmure, why not simply pay off the debt by yourself?" He wondered who this Aenera was if she could give away an entire Kingdom's worth of gold away. He knew of the power of Essosi Merchant Houses- but didn't know that they lent as much as Essosi Banks did to Westerosi.

"And ruin our accounts?" exclaimed Tiro as if scarcely able to believe his ears.

"A great man once said," quoted Lord Edmure vacantly, "A National Debt, if not excessive, is a blessing to all."

"Ser Davos is right, Ed," broke in Hugo uncaring of Lord Edmure's justification, "How could we be in so much debt to her! This is ridiculous!"

"We started with fifty thousand," remarked Lord Edmure carelessly, "And then I took another twenty. It kind of built up. She's very convincing when she's wearing silks."

"Really? Is that the reason," slurred Ser Hugo, "And you said you'd sworn off whores!"

"Have you any idea how few pretty girls in this bloody city are untaken and over seventeen?"

"What does that…Ed, this is Madness!"

"She's pretty all right," said Ser Willem sarcastically. "A pretty witch, to be exact."

"I agree to that," replied Tiro, grinding his teeth, "but I assure you all your position is perfectly tenable!"

"Fifty thousand would've been excessive, Master Tiro," Davos replied. He could imagine Lord Stannis' reaction if told about buying a debt of two hundred thousand dragons. All the likely scenarios involved swords and blocks and beheadings. "Two hundred thousand is too much! Lord Stannis will never approve of this!"

"But we can pay them back!" pleaded Tiro, still staring at them as if they'd grown two heads. "It's not like we are running losses!"

"We need Aenera's coin to pay the small Volantene merchants," said Lord Edmure in a long-suffering tone. "That's the main reason they even trade with us."

"Ed, we can ask the Braavosi," said Ser Hugo. "Ser Brynden and Lord Jon know a banker who…"

"The Lord Hand?" Davos interrupted him. "Why would he know a banker? The Throne's not in debt, is it?"

"A bit, I guess. I don't know," Ser Hugo shrugged before turning a nasty look at Tiro, "But not Two hundred fucking thousand dragons in debt!"

"Come now, there's no need to lose our tempers," advised Ser Willem in a morose voice "there are children here."

"We're not children!"

"Braavosi are close to Pentos. There's no way they'll approve of our cloth trade."

"Fuck our cloth if it gets our necks off the block!"

"Are you out of your mind, Ser Hugo!" spat out Tiro, uncaring of the looks he got from most of the table. "Our cloth drives the flax trade and sheep trade and the shipping back in the Riverlands!"

Davos put in his thoughts. "Master Tiro, I doubt many nobles– or even smallfolk- would look upon such debts as a good sign. I think it would be better if you pay off your debts in full from your profits and take help from the Hand. I don't think Lord Stannis would agree to your proposal at all"

"You Westerosi are impossible!" sighed Tiro, his head in his hands.

"Ser Davos, would you carry my offer to Lord Stannis at least?" requested Lord Edmure insistently. "I'm willing to give him the debt for my silks and spices. The prices for such luxuries increase in summer when the taxes start rolling in and the nobles start buying more. My stockpiles will let me undercut foreign prices there. It's a perfectly safe investment."

"No one can hardly buy anything during rebellions, Edmure!" argued Hugo before Davos could answer. "Haven't you heard of the peasants rioting down the Rose Road?"

"What riots? I was at Dragonstone, remember?" was the irritated reply from the Riverlord. Davos was thinking the same. It looked like Lord Stannis would need to set his lands in order quickly and come to the Capital fast.

"Reach peasants are nothing," opined Ser Willem. "If they'd been Northerners or Dornish…maybe. But Reach levees and infantry have always been a joke. I think the Gulltown affair is more…"

"What's happened at Gulltown?" asked Lord Edmure quickly.

"They've put an extra tax on all grain imports from the Riverlands," explained Daeron. "Ser Yohn had written to them saying that Lord Arryn has reduced tariffs across the Seven Kingdoms but the customs master refused to listen to him."

"Baelish!" spat Lord Edmure, banging his fist on the table. "I'd forgotten all about him!"

"You know Lord Baelish?" exclaimed Tiro in surprise. "He's been appointed Master of Coin. Will be coming to King's Landing in two months, I guess."

Lord Edmure's face fell and he collapsed onto his chair. Staring slowly from one face to the other, he slowly stammered, "But…But I… I thought I'll be made….FUCK!" The plates and tankards rattled as his fist hit the table again.


	17. Reckoning

**EDDARD**

 **290 AC**

The summer snows were falling fast and all around him stretched a blank whiteness that had been so shortly before been a verdant green. The Bay of Seals was still clear of ice but already there were floes and icebergs enough to make sailing at night a risky venture- and for his plans, Ned wanted the speed only the dromonds of White Harbour could give him. The speed to outrun the snows, to outrun winter. Ser Wylis had promised them to be at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea within a month; Ned had been unsatisfied with his estimates but there was nothing he could've done.

"They say the Braavosi can make a galley in a day, my Lord," the fat knight had said, his moustache quivering in trepidation, when he'd met him in White Harbour a month ago. "I wish we could've done the same but we lack the skill of the Essosi in such things." Ned took him at his word. He himself knew little about Essos but what he'd learnt not two weeks past from Jon's letter hadn't filled him with confidence.

The decision to commission new dromonds was typically a matter for the preview of the Wardens or the Court itself. Tywin Lannister probably wouldn't have bothered even informing the Court if he were raising new armies but Eddard had thought it wiser to avoid any undue attention, be it even from his own foster father and brother.

Jon Arryn's reply to his request had been a long rambling affair. His foster father had told him that Eddard was free to do whatever he wanted if he felt it would keep the peace. The bulk of the letter was, however, about matters of coin. Ned had learnt that the Crown was almost gasping for gold; the expenses for the Rebellions and the Royal family's excesses had almost drained the treasury. Already Jon had to start taking on debt from the Lannisters to pay for the Realm's expenses - despite the income having doubled since the winter had ended. Eddard had been shocked to know that the Treasury, overflowing with coin when he'd taken it, was empty now- but he also understood why Jon had told him this as well.

In this venture, Ned would have little support from the Iron Throne.

That didn't disturb him overmuch. The chief expenses were the four dromonds he had commissioned, each of which represented a burden of nearly five thousand dragons and thus, nearly half of Winterfell's annual income- though half of it was being raised by the Manderlys and the western Houses who weren't sending men to the campaign. The North had always been separate from the South and while Winterfell may not have had the riches of Casterly Rock, Ned had incomes enough to feed and keep two thousand men armoured and ready at all times, and the strength of his bannermen was priceless.

They were with him now.

The van of his host was led by the powerful barrowknights of the Ryswells. Ned wouldn't have given them the honour if he'd been campaigning in the South but against Wildlings, there was little chance of their loyalty shaking. Then came the bulk of his host- the mailed foot infantry of Widow's Watch, troops of the Dreadfort bearing powerful axes led by Roose Bolton himself, Lord Karstark and the men of the Grey Cliffs, the archers of Long Lake under Lord Cerwyn, and finally the greatsword-bearing men of the Umbers and the Flints. Then had come a thousand riders of Winterfell, twice that of any other House, with Jory Cassel and a hundred stout foot making up the rear-guard. Their right flank was guarded by the Bay of the Seals; their left by five hundred of the Mountain clans' outriders. White Harbour and Ramsgate had pledged men as well; they'd be sailing the fifteen hundred miles between White Harbour and the Bight of Storrold once the dromonds were done. They were late though. Two nights ago, riders had reported seeing lights on the water- but there was nothing in the Bay come morning but ice floes and seals. "Witches' lanterns," Lord Wull had grunted. "They ride seahorses and tempt children into the Bay of Seals. Why not the same here?"

Behind Ned, trailed the Greatjon, Crowfood and Smalljon, deep in conversation with Lord Karstark and his brothers, quiet Roose Bolton, and Lord Ryswell who was arguing with Lord Wull and Lord Norrey regarding the merits of chainmail over ringmail. The other lords and their sons were riding with their own hosts; Ned had made it clear that the high-born under him had to be in touch with the men at all times.

Their host had no scouts though; those duties were being fulfilled by the thirty or so Rangers Lord Commander Mormont had lent him.

Their captain, the famed Qhorin Halfhand of distant Shadow Tower, rode at his side now. He was a tall, clean-shaven man with braided hair of black with grey streaks. He was a silent, taciturn man, a man of few words and swift action. Ned had heard much about and respected him deeply- not least because the Halfhand was one of the few men in command within his host who didn't disdain their foes.

Ned had been deeply disturbed at the lack of discipline within his host from the start. Hatred between Wildlings and Northmen ran deep- but with it, there was also a feeling of inherent superiority on both sides. The Umbers and Mountain Clans considered them cannibals, the Manderlys and Ryswells boogeymen. Even sensible Lord Cerwyn was not immune to it, and Karhold and Dreadfort had suffered enough raids during Winter that Ned feared the ability of his mightiest bannermen to keep their men in line during battle. And he had reason enough to doubt. They'd barely left Eastwatch-by-the-sea when Ned realized that the camps were being slovenly made. The men were disdainful of the Wildlings and this reflected upon their work. Apart from the Umbers and the Mountain Clans, who hated the Wildlings but knew their skill, and Roose Bolton's and his own hosts, the other Northlords had little experience fighting Wildlings and thus, little respect for their abilities. Ned set Roose Bolton to set things right; the Lord of Dreadfort would not be soft in his words and actions- but whatever feathers would get ruffled would keep men alive. The previous night, there'd also been a scuffle between the Harclays and Karhold infantrymen over some stolen sausages. The matter had been slight- but Ned had to intervene himself after Arnolf Karstark and Theon Harclay had almost come to blows. Even now sullen faces and slouched backs dominated their march.

But not one man in their host had deserted in the eight hundred mile march from Winterfell to beyond the Wall.

 _Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever…_

From what depths of memory had those words come to him then? Had it been Nan who had told them this, back in the days where Lord Rickard's children were still together? Or had it been before that? When Lya had been little more than a toddler, and Brandon still his brother and not a stranger he met once a year, and they played at their Lady Mother's lap? Was it in the Eerie? Winterfell? A visit to the Cerwyns? The smoke-filled Hall of his Father's Lordship?

He wished he could remember.

Qhorin and Lord Bolton were now conversing with one of Qhorin's Rangers leading a shaggy grey garron, Dwyen- if Ned recalled correctly- while Roger Ryswell was listening intently. Ned turned his horse's head towards them.

"Lord Stark," greeted Roose Bolton, his eyes as unsettling as always, "The brother says he has tracked them to the mouth of river Storrold. If we march by night, we will be upon them by dawn."

"And risk mutiny by your men? No, my Lord. I won't chance it." said the Halfhand flatly.

Young Roger Ryswell bristled at his words. "Are you implying we're craven, Lord Halfhand? Ryswell horses know no fear or weakness, and neither do our barrowknights."

"I am no Lord, only a brother of the Night's Watch," said the Halfhand calmly. "And I never imply. I say what I will, like an honest man would. If I had a dozen men with me, I would have thought nothing of a forced march through the night. A hundred and I would've taken pause. The fools here? Half of whom haven't ventured north of the Wall in their lives? No, Ser, I would rather fight the Weeper and Crowkiller with my thirty brothers here." Roger's eyes flashed and Ned saw his hand steal towards his horse-head pommel of his sword. Ned knew that young Roger had come of age two years ago and there were few riders or lancers better than him in the North. Ned also knew that if he drew his sword, the Halfhand would cut him down without wasting a breath.

"Ser Ryswell," he commanded, "I would wish to speak with your Lord father in Council once we stop for the evening meal. Be kind enough to go and tell him. Lord Bolton, if you could send riders to every Lord in our host?"

"Aye, every Lording," Dywen clacked his wooden teeth. "Counted me 'bout four thousands o' thee Wildbucks, me did. Spearwives and toddlers, as well. One giant too, biggest I has seen in me life!" _Twice their numbers then and no sign of White Harbour. It won't do to let the men know this…_

Ryswell bristled and Ned sighed in relief as he saw his hand return to his reins. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Halfhand and Roose Bolton looking at him. _I will have to have words with Roose about his goodbrother tonight_ , thought Ned. Lord Ryswell had little love for Winterfell and had been cool to Dreadfort since Lady Bethany's death but even so, waiting for Ned to intervene himself in the quarrel hadn't been very wise. A Dreadfort rider came up and exchanged a word with Roose.

 _Keep the peace, honour the gods, defend the Realm_ …

 _Promise me, Ned…_

"Giants are old wives' tales, Ser Dywen." The boy snorted. "No one has seen any in centuries!" Saying so, he spurred his horse, and was riding towards his father a hundred feet away.

Dywen chuckled and clacked his teeth again. "Poor wee lad. He's gonna get his 'ead stove in one day."

"Is that a threat, brother Dywen?" came Roose's silky voice. Ned had seen even the Greatjon blink and go on his guard every time Lord Bolton spoke in such a tone but Dywen seemed unfazed.

Digging his finger into a dirty ear, he slouched. "Threat, m'lord? Just saying, me is. You don't want a scuffle with giants, m'lord. Forty feet they are though me has a bigger member, me has."

"That's enough, brother," said the Halfhand. "Is Kedge around?"

"Last see him two miles 'head."

"It would be useful if one of your brothers could bring back one of the Wildings to us," said Roose Bolton softly. "Men sometimes find their tongues after a leaching."

 _And if half of what is rumoured about your Keep is true, My Lord, they always find their tongues after a flaying_ , thought Ned. Flaying had been forbidden in the North for centuries but Ned, like his father and his father before him, had never believed the Boltons had stopped the practice in secret. He told the Halfhand, "Lord Bolton has the right of it. Can you find a straggler or a careless guard?"

The Halfhand nodded grimly. "Do as the Lords say. Tell Kedge I need his counsel. Him and Softfoot." Dwyen nodded and smiled a wooden smile before mounting his horse and riding off.

"We can but try," said the Halfhand as he watched his comrade ride away. "If we do, Ebben will question them."

"The Wildlings may be savages but they are men, and can be subtle, brother Qhorin. I feel it is better if I do the task." Roose replied but Eddard silenced him with a steely gaze.

"Is this Ebben capable?" he asked the Halfhand, grey eyes still boring into Roose Bolton who, at length, bowed his head slightly.

"Ebben can make any man give up his secrets," said Qhorin. "He takes pride in his work."

 _A monster, then. The same as Roose Bolton_ , thought Ned. _But not my concern_. "Send me the word once you have your men," he commanded.

"Would you strike camp, my Lord?" asked Roose Bolton.

"Nay. But the men would need rest if they are to march all night," explained Ned. "We will sit in Council then."

The sun was setting when Kedge Whiteye finally turned up. With him were Softfoot, a quiet dark man Ned instinctively took a hatred for, and Dywen leading a shaggy mountain pony with a Wildling trussed up like a turkey on it. Lord Norrey belched a hearty laugh when he saw them. "Old Bear's men have bought meat for the pot, lads! I'm getting a mighty appetite. Would that I had a woman to fill after I've eaten my fill!"

"There are lots of spearwives in yonder host, my Lord," said the Halfhand quietly in reply. "And lots of men who don't wake up after a night with them."

The man didn't last the night either. By the time, Ned signalled a respite for the evening meal, Ebben and Softfoot had ridden back from wherever they'd taken the men into the forest for questioning. The word was given and the Northlords were soon closing around Ned for Council.

"He wasn't exactly part of the Host yonder, just a local tribal," said the Ebben at the centre of their circle. He sniffed and as he wiped his nose, Ned noticed blood still stained his fingernails. "The Weeper is not well-loved even among them."

"But they'll raise cairns and mourn him once he's gone though," grunted Lord Umber. "Every dead crackpot is a martyr to these savages."

"Not 'is one," sniffed Dywen. "Was running for Tormund's fires by the Milkwater. Sent runners all around the Bay, they have. Join or Die. The Weeper burnt down 'is village an took 'is daughter."

"Rattleshirt's promised to take every brown man's head he can find. And he's promised the Weeper their eyes. Crowkiller's not happy with them, from what he back there told me," said Ebben, jerking a short thumb towards the woods, "Said they've stuck to the mouth of old Storrold these past three days doing the Trees knows what."

"Planning to choose a new King-beyond-the-Wall me thinks, curse their hides!" snarled Cregan Karstark, as he took off his fur-lined helm and massaged his bald head. "How strong is their host?"

"Nine thousand or I's a shadowcat."

"Cannibals, drunks, women and infants," muttered Lord Wull.

Young Roger nodded eagerly. "It's no matter. One Northman can take on ten of these savages."

 _Lord Ryswell would find it advisable to teach his heir more about Wildlings_ , thought Ned. Many of the Lords around him, despite their own disregard of Wildling skill, seemed to share his thoughts. Lord Norrey and the Umbers were looking at Roger as if he were drunk. Crowfood was fingering his axe, a heavy steel one with an ugly spike atop it. "Storrold's mouth…that's barely six miles. We can be upon them by dawn if we march hard."

Soft-spoken Lord Cerwyn disagreed, "The men have been marching since dawn. Another six miles and a battle after that? I would not risk it."

"Neither would I," muttered the Greatjon, to the surprise of all of them there. "A march through wildling woods filled with Wilding trackers? And if they get a whiff of our coming, they'll just melt away like Wildlings do, and leave us staring bug-eyed."

"If they melt away," observed Roose Bolton quietly.

Dywen clacked his wooden teeth, the wrinkles on his face clearly showing his disapproval of the Greatjon's words, "They have few trackers out; seem to have called 'em all in. And Lord o' Bones, he ain't a strateegiz or whatever Old Bear calls 'em. They'll stay for our horses."

"The Ranger is right," piped up Roger Ryswell, his eyes gleaming with youthful energy. "We must attack at once! They have no cavalry and no walls to hide behind! Our knights will crush them with ease."

"No, they won't," replied Lord Norrey viciously. "Not on miles of stony, icy river mouth, they won't."

Ned decided to intervene. "Master Qhorin, if you and your band of rangers happened to attack some of the stragglers in the Wildling host, do you believe they will come after you in force?" He asked the Ranger who'd been looking at their Council with some amusement.

"Possibly, Lord Stark," came the reply. "Crowkiller loathes the Night's Watch and especially me. Rattleshirt and the Weeper might not bother but if there is no one leader in the host, and I think there isn't, they might come just for sake of appearances."

Ned closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, he could see the spears and swords and shields of the men at the Trident. At their head had stood a tall, tall prince in armour, dark as the night, and red dragon crest, atop a black destrier. And Robert had thrown him down and crushed his dark breastplate with his great Warhammer and the rubies had fallen and tumbled down into the waters of the Ruby ford…

"Lord Bolton!" He had come to a decision.

Came the soft reply, "My Lord?"

"How many pikes do we have?"

The Lords were all silent now, gazing at Ned and awaiting their orders. It were these times that Ned always hated, always fearing that one day the cold mask he wore would crack and they would see him for the scared, hesitant young man he was. But always the mask would hold, and always they would obey.

Lord Bolton replied. "Few hundred. There seemed little need for them in the hills and woods."

"Possibly Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel might bring some," wondered Lord Cerwyn.

"No, my Lords." Ned shook his head. "We must do what Greatjon said. Crush them before they vanish into the woods. At the Hour of the Jackal, Qhorin, divide your men into three raiding parties of five to six each. Harry their host from the west. When they pursue, lead them south where Lord Cerwyn's archers can pick them off. Lord Bolton, remain hidden with your men in the woods. When you see them pursuing the Black Brothers, approach the camp slowly head on with your men. We have no pikes so fend them off with your shieldwall. The men of Karhold will aid you in this."

"Me, stand behind a Bolton?" asked Lord Karstark incredulously. Roose Bolton was silent as always; the acrimony between Dreadfort and its neighbours was well known all over the North. From the corner of his eye, Ned could see the Ryswells stirring as well.

 _And risk mutiny by your men? No, my Lord. I won't chance it…"_ No, my Lord. You will be at my side. You and Lord Umber are to select two hundred picked men each. We ride north tonight, and then sneak downstream through the riverbed on foot…"

"And surprise them in their beds! Har! Ned, I like this," laughed Lord Umber heartily.

Ned gave him a brief nod of gratitude and went on. "Lord Flint will back Lord Bolton's infantry, Lord Ryswell as well, dismounting if needed. If they are unwilling to attack, Ser Roger will harry them as per Lord Ryswell's orders and Jory Cassel will remain mounted with Winterfell men. If they break ranks and charge, Lord Wull will lead the mountain clansmen on foot onto the river mouth itself and hem them in. If they don't, attack their camps on foot and try to hold them off till dawn until I or Cassel reach you. Lords Bolton, Wull, Ryswell- discuss among yourselves what signals you are to use."

Dywen interrupted, "It'll be dark so best use arrows. Any of ye lords feel lucky, call 'em a challenge."

Lord Ryswell hurriedly broke in before the Ranger could say more. "That would be unnecessary. Lord Stark has given us our orders already," he said quickly, an eye on his hot-blooded son who looked disappointed. _There are none so eager for battle as green knights_ , thought Ned. And then he thought of Robert and Brandon…and his family waiting at Winterfell for him to return.

But whatever be his fate, for now it was time to ride.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The responses to the last chapter were- interesting to say the least._

 _Guest: Baelish is probably the biggest natural rival Edmure has. Varys, for all his power, has very little idea about economics. Baelish is a natural genius- as opposed to Not!Edmure's trained scholar._

 _Dog of War: One of Tyrion's chapter had Jon mentioning his gratitude to Edmure's trade. Jon was also the one who wrangled Not!Edmure's passage onto Stannis' campaign. Not!Edmure is not only rich and with Essosi connections- but has spent two years living in the same city as Lysa and Jon- and that connection has been mentioned in at least three chapters- once even by Stannis himself. He's young, of course- but Renly was the same age when he became Master of Law._

 _Hint: - Pay close attention to the chapter in Hoster's Solar._

 _All debt is paid by portions._

 _Arnumart: Considering that Not!Edmure is not from Westeros, it would be surprising if he did. And the entire point of this fic is Not!Edmure doing things that have not been done in Westeros and are feasible enough to be done. I'm not going to have him dig a canal through the 300 miles of Swampland just because that idea is popular. A Moat Cailin canal is impossible; Fractional Reserve Banking isn't._

 _People don't win the 'Game of Thrones' by being evil. They win it by being competent. Every villain in the story was winning because they were incredibly competent or because the anti-heroes they were fighting made huge mistakes. Every villain in the series is suffering right now both in the books and the show- apart from the TV Boltons because I have no clue what D &D are trying to do with the characters. _

_Interestingly the ONLY heroic character in the Series- Jon Snow- rose to the top of the Night's Watch, lost only because he was betrayed by a few traitors (there was no mutiny like with Jeor Mormont), lasted longer than four of the Kings and will probably be resurrected as well._

 _XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

 _The 2008, 2009, 2014, 2015 and the coming 2017 financial crises across the World have severely wrapped public opinion towards Debts and Banking- which is sad because the current Financial System- arising partly from Adam Smith's legendary work, the Wealth of Nations, has been the most successful and efficient in human history. And the primary reason it has worked is the flexibility and power it gives to Credit and Forex systems._

 _When I started this Fic, my aim was to ensure that there is a believable system in place for military, economic, and bureaucratic systems. This is why I'll be focusing on economic warfare so much- because that was the primary reason why the War of the Five Kings started- Baelish mucking around and devaluing the currency. This is also the reason why I'm not hand waving entire armies into existence. Judging from pay scales during the English Civil War, a standing army of 10,000 men in Westeros would cost 320 dragons (before Baelish) and 3200 dragons (after Baelish) PER DAY._

 _Wars are expensive. Battles are expensive. That is why it's said that_ ' _The supreme art of_ _ **war**_ _is to subdue the enemy without_ _ **fighting'.**_

 _Most medieval Wars were not won on the Battlefield- but in Italian banks. European kings were under almost constant debt throughout their reign. There was simply no other way to develop the nation and fund the armies without taking on heavy debts. But this didn't mean these debts were unhealthy; as long as the incomes are enough to pay off the interest, everything's fine- that's why Not!Edmure refers to Alexander Hamilton at one point. The Iron Throne was not in trouble because they owed 6 million Dragons; they were in trouble because they'd been wasting that money on tourneys and feasts and luxuries. If Robert had spent that money on universities and ships, he'd have been earning enough to simply buy a bank for himself._

 _But the Westerosi don't understand what it means to use debt or to buy and sell debts or to develop them to build infrastructure and resources because they're based on medieval Western Europeans who were some of the most primitive people of the World at the time. And why the Essosi- based on the highly advanced nations of Southern Europe, the Middle East and China- do._

 _newshour/making-sense/why-debt-and-money-created-out/_


	18. The Rose Road

**CERSEI**

 **290 AC**

"Why have we stopped yet again?" snarled Cersei at the handmaiden. She'd been asleep in her wheelhouse, surrounded by her beloved Joffrey and Myrcella and holding her two year old Tommen in her arms. There was little else to do; she'd run out of stories for her poor children while on the Gold Road two months back and the maid servants and nurses had been shirking their duties ever since that ridiculous incident a week back at Highgarden.

Her darling Joffrey was now eight namedays old, and Cersei had been proud to find him swinging a wooden sword at some servant girl one day. Jaime had been put out with this for some reason and even tried to pay the girl for some reason, but Cersei had been wise enough to ask Joffrey the reason for the violence.

"I saw her spill some of Tommen's milk, mother," he'd said triumphantly, still waving his wooden sword like a knight from a fairy tale. "The wicked must be punished!" Just like his darling Joffrey to defend his little brother from the schemes of some wretch, she'd told Jaime later- but he'd still had that disturbed look on his face. She was sure that he'd snuck behind her back and spoken with the servant girl again, probably handed her some dragons as well. If it had been any other man, she'd have never forgiven but them- but Jaime…Jaime was her other half.

But a _ll men are the same_ , she had thought later while dancing with him at the feast being held in their honour at Highgarden. Robert was, as befitted a King of his dignity, had spent the night shouting oaths and curses at all he saw, drinking whole tankards of ale, and pinching the bosoms of any young serving wench and noble woman within his reach. He hadn't come to their bed that night in the chief guest quarters either; the gods only knew where he lay fucking some Reach whore.

But since that day, she'd noticed nurses and handmaidens more unreliable in their duties than ever. As if the poxy Lady Orne hadn't been a trail enough. She was back in King's Landing suffering just desserts- but instead one of her ilk now stood trembling and making excuses before her.

"My apologies, Your Grace. But the road head has been blocked. There's a rabble there shouting and burning things," she answered in a weak, tremulous voice.

"Are they bandits?" asked Cersei worriedly. _So close to King's Landing? What were the Tyrells and Jon Arryn doing?_

"No, Your Grace. I think they are peasants protesting the taxes upon them."

Cersei suppressed a surge of anger. It were these whimpering worms who gave her sex such a bad name. "Have the knights ride them down," she snapped. "Where is the King?" Strange that the fat oaf who liked nothing better to do than run around drunk hitting people and fucking whores like some brute of a Sellsword hadn't crushed the rebelling scum already.

"He is ahead speaking with the peasants with Lord Footly," stammered the little whore. "The Kingsguard are with him, Your Grace. No harm will come to him."

 _Not bashing in heads and ordering charges? All the wine has probably taken his sting away_ , Cersei thought. The fat oaf was dangerous with a hammer- as she'd seen at one of the melees at King's Landing last year but he'd been taking on weight every year since the Greyjoy Rebellion had ended and wine and mead and ale had flowed like water throughout their slow journey through the Reach.

Which was probably why Robert had decided to take on Loras Tyrell as his brother Renly's squire. Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Loras' father, was a fat oaf as well. The man was not ten years her elder, yet rose that he was, something undefinable about him reminded him of the musty dank smell that hung around old Jon Arryn and Cersei had taken an instinctive dislike to him from the minute she'd met him. Not that the two looked anything alike. Where Jon Arryn was tall and thin as a winter willow, Mace Tyrell was short and pudgy with heavy silks covering a heavy, slow body. While in every situation, the Hand was the picture of energy and activity, Mace Tyrell's ponderous bulk and speech were a fair reflection on his paltry deeds. Where Jon Arryn eschewed the centre of attraction, preferring to push puppets here and there from the shadows, Mace Tyrell had few puppets of his own and the ones he'd inherited, he'd lost no time in alienating. _What kind of man would boast about Ashford when both Tarly and Robert himself sat not five feet from him?_

Jon Arryn was dangerous because of his capabilities. Mace Tyrell was dangerous in spite of them.

"Bid my brother come and speak to me," she commanded the handmaiden.

"Your Grace," the little slut tittered, "There are more than three thousand of the smallfolk ahead. Lord Footly has no more than twenty men with him and the King…"

"…is defended by not only the Kingsguard but the Royal guardsmen and Lannister swords," Cersei went on over her, "I will have my brother with me. Go send a rider now." The audacity of these servants was galling. Maybe she ought to have brought some of her own kin brought to court. _A proper squire as we_ ll, she thought, thinking of the Tyrell boy. _He was barely ten but at the squire's melee at Highgarden, he'd held his own against squires two years his senior. A Lannister would do better._ Joffrey stirred in his sleep, and she patted his head softly. Her darling boy…Soon he would be a squire as well and then, a renowned knight just like his father. But she won't be sending him anyway; he would be a better mother than the pouting Tyrell woman and that intolerable queen of Thorns. Joffrey would learn arms from her Jaime at the Red Keep.

She was lost in her thoughts, patting her sleeping children's blonde locks and humming a lullaby when Jaime came up and rapped at the Wheelhouse's windows with gauntleted knuckles. She shushed him with a look of impatience at her face before pointing to their sleeping children and creaked open the door slowly for him. At least, he had the manners to remove his helmet before clambering into the wheelhouse.

"Can I hold Tom…" he started, speaking too loudly- as if he were in the middle of a battle or something.

"Don't talk so loudly," she hissed at him, "Are we safe? Have those fools been driven off?" the fool hadn't even taken off his heavy gauntlets of enamelled steel. What if he crushed her little son?

Jaime looked slightly crestfallen but he replied promptly, "Who? The peasants? I don't think they can harm us, Cersei. We're too many for them."

"Three thousand of those filthy dirt-eaters!" Cersei's voice rose. _How was it that all these knights and warriors were such cowards?_ "We barely have a tenth of their number!"

"We have knights and armed guardsmen, Cersei," Jaime tried to assure her. "All they have are knives lashed to sticks and the odd wood axe. Footly's forty men at Tumbleton would've been a struggle for them. Ser Elmsworth is rushing here with another hundred knights. I don't even think they're planning to hurt us, just talk to Robert."

 _No king should've to lower himself for malcontents and rebels_ , thought Cersei savagely. If her Lord Father had been there, those peasants would've been fertilizing their own crops and the ringleaders would've been to put in cages to die of hunger and thirst. "Why hadn't Jon Arryn done anything about them yet? I've told you many times he's conspiring against us!"

"We are still in the Reach, Cersei." Jaime made yet another paw at Tommen but noted Cersei's livid eyes, and contented himself with patting Myrcella's shoulder instead.

 _The noble fool! How couldn't he see what's co obvious to me!_ Cersei's eyes bored into him though he kept on looking at her like some half-wit. "Why are they even rebelling anyway? Summer has barely begun; they should be having enough food and babies now."

"They're protesting the taxes upon them," explained Jaime. "They say they can't pay them."

"Then why not crush them?" Cersei said bitterly. "Kill one as an example. The rest will learn." That's what father would've done. _That's what I would've done…_

But Jaime shook his head. "They're saying that grain fetches only a half the price it did last summer. There is too much grain coming down the Rose Road from King's Landing. They just don't the coin to pay their taxes to Lord Footley, and the Tyrells have always been stern on the matter."

 _How else could those upjumped servants have gained so much power?_ Few things irritated Cersei as much as people grasping at titles and power beyond their status in life. The Tyrells had been nothing more than stewards to the Gardeners when Aegon the Conqueror had come to Westeros. After the Kings of the Reach and their line had been extinguished at the Field of Fire, the Tyrells had been smart enough to drop to their knees. Considering her experience with Mace Tyrell, maybe Aegon had been so shocked at this display of wisdom that he'd given them the Reach to misrule- over far more older and deserving Houses like the Tarlys and the Hightowers.

"This is folly, Jaime!" exclaimed Cersei, her voice rising in anger and frustration. "The smallfolk must pay! That is what smallfolk are for!" Tommen began to stir in her arms and Cersei shot her brother a look of indignation. "Why aren't you crushing them with your sword? Where is Robert?"

"I did recommend this at first but Robert would not hear of it. Neither would Renly nor Ser Barristan."

Cersei had enough of the rigmarole. She slid open the shutter and rang a bell. Within a few seconds, there was a footman at the Wheelhouse door. "Take me to the King," she ordered the terrified footman.

"But, Your Grace," stammered the miserable servant. "The orders were to… The peasants on the road…"

Jaime protested, "Cersei, what are you doing? It's not safe!"

Cersei coolly regraded him. "Then came it safe," was her only reply.

Jaime sighed and leapt off the Wheelhouse. She heard him calling for a guard of at least fifty riders and for scouts to run into the countryside for at last half a mile. Then there were arguments and voices raised in anger; Vylarr seemed to have ridden up as well. What happened between the two Cersei didn't hear as her Wheelhouse had started clattering along the road again- but she guessed Jaime had prevailed in the end. Along with wagons, strong carts, horses, and the servants in their entourage, she started seeing mounted red-clad Lannister guardsmen come up to ride alongside them.

After barely fifteen minutes of moving, they came to a stop- and she heard raised voices again. Robert's.

"So, you're here again, eh? Rushing here and there like a bad egg," Robert was lambasting her brother while Renly and Loras tried to avoid looking at the scene and Ser Barristan looked on with a face of stone. "Didn't you run off to hide under your sister's skirts a little while back?"

Cersei poked her head out of the Wheelhouse window and had a look around.

In the middle of the Rose Road, a vast pile of harvested grain had been put to block the traffic. Dirty, brutish looking men in ragged clothes and muddy shoes stood in front, behind, on all sides of the pile- along with quite a few filthy children, who looked like tiny mirrors to their filthy sires. Some of them held weapons of the sort Jaime had described- but the vast majority held only sticks. Cersei shuddered; she remembered seeing her uncles once practising with spears a long time ago at Casterly Rock. Uncle Kevan had managed to lop off the blade off uncle Tygett's spear- but then the younger, hot-blooded knight had unleashed such a series of powerful blows with the mere stick that his older brother had been forced to surrender. There was no question of the power of a quarter-staff in the hands of a trained man- and she breathed a sigh of relief when Ser Barristan barked orders for the mounted Baratheon guardsmen there to dismount and form a shieldwall around her Wheelhouse. The Lord Commander then came riding up himself; he exchanged a few words with Vylarr and then the latter spurred his horse and rode off somewhere.

Two burly Kingsguards- Mandon Moore and Boros Blount came running on foot. From some distance ahead, she heard Renly declare, "My brothers, believe me when I say I have heard your complaints! I have heard your sorrows! I assure you my brother, our King, and I will get you justice. I will speak to your liege lords myself! And if they still insist on payment, I, Renly of House Baratheon of Storm's End, will answer for each penny they ask of you!"

"This will not be, Lord Renly!" piped up a young boy's voice. _What on Earth is this mummer's farce_ , thought Cersei incredulously as she saw young Loras Tyrell ride up by Renly's side. "I am the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach." His clear, open voice seemed to ring across all the Seven Kingdoms. "Not only will my father hear of what has happened with you, I swear that I will match Lord Renly's generosity to you!"

Cheers rang out and Cersei saw Robert laughing and thumping his brother on the back happily. The young Tyrell boy looked embarrassed as Ser Barristan shook his arm. Even Jaime looked relieved. Cersei felt like vomiting there on the grass itself.

Slowly the crowd started to disperse. Robert looked at the darkening sky and then with nary a glance at the wheelhouse, galloped away with his brothers, Ser Barristan and the Baratheon guard. Ser Mandon Moore came about, ordering the shieldwall around them to mount up and guard the flanks of the column, before being called away by Jaime for some reason. It wasn't until a full two hours had passed that Vylarr, his greying golden hair damp with sweat and his stallion's nostrils dilating with exhaustion, rode up to the Wheelhouse window.

"Lady Cersei," the old Captain of the Guards greeted her cheerfully. She liked Vylarr; he had always turned a blind eye whenever she and Jaime ran around pretending being knights as children even though he'd known that her father didn't approve. The old man had been a fixture during her childhood and she'd taken him along when she came to King's Landing as well. "The children aren't worried, are they?"

The children had been asleep all through the ordeal, thank the gods. "Indeed, Captain Vylarr," smiled Cersei. "Those rebels won't come back anymore, will they?"

"You shouldn't worry, my Lady," Vylarr assured her. "Ser Jaime and I have set scouts all around the column. Even if they return, we'll hear of them an hour before and if they attack, I will lead charges against them myself." Vylarr might look old, Cersei knew- but in his wiry aged body, he held great strength and was as skilled as a knight. She'd seen him fend off men half his age in melees. "We will be out of the Reach by tomorrow morning; maybe by midnight tonight if we don't stop. The Rose Road is a good road."

"And if there are peasants rioting in the Crownlands," questioned Cersei. With Jon Arryn's hatred for Lannisters, it was doubtful he would've laboured to make the road safe for her children.

Vylarr scratched his bare head; Cersei noticed that his half helm was stuck into his horse's saddlebags but didn't have the heart to scold him for the carelessness. "If there are, we'll have to just travel the way we are doing now. Won't surprise me though!"

 _Aha!_ Cersei sighed in contentment. _At last someone who realizes that Jon Arryn is up to no good!_ "Do you really think co, Captain Vylarr? Possibly the Hand has not been amiss in his duties, has he?"

"I don't know much about foreign lords and ladies, my Lady," Vylarr gave her a soft smile. "Lord Tywin, Lord Kevan, Lord Gerion, Lady Genna, poor poor master Tygett." He shook his head softly. "Now I hear Lord Gerion has got some weird notions in his head again…"

"What notions, Captain?" asked Cersei curiously. Uncle Gerion's antics were often a matter of concern for her father. And then was the matter of the wretched whore who'd tricked him and got herself pregnant with some silly girl.

"Going to Valyria…" Vylarr shook his head again. "What will he think of next…?"


	19. Rising Smoke

**JAIME**

 **290 AC**

Jaime had been napping in the kitchens when they woke him up.

A grey dawn shone through the pig-bladders stretched over the windows and all around him ran chickens, ducks and other beasts and birds. A think stink of soot hung around him- pervading every inch of his surcoat, his mail, his skin. Outside, shadows lay across the land: across the Hall upon the mound just north of the town walls and the fields surrounding it, across the stream and the woods and the pavilions and banners that had risen overnight around the town once the raven had come from King's Landing telling them to stay.

Robert had been livid- cursing at the top of his voice, threatening to ride off and squash any revels out in the woods by himself, and hanging any who denied him his will. And then Renly had asked him whether he would risk the lives of his children on the open road and hang his own foster father and Hand after reaching the Capital which had shut him up and left them in peace. It had been long later that scouts had reported that the Rose Road had been ploughed up for a distance of almost five miles just before it entered the Crownlands; little trouble for the mounted knights but not for the heavy carriages and wheelhouses that made up most of their Party.

"What is it?" asked Jaime groggily to the person who'd woken him up. One of the stable boys he'd been introduced when their party had reached Tumbleton two days ago- Agan, if he recalled correctly.

The boy bowed. He looked tired as well; Footly, in order to impress the Royal Party, had been putting his men on triple shifts every day even though they numbered a mere forty to their three hundred and twenty. "It's the Goldcloaks, m'lord. They've arrived at the Keep."

Jaime groaned and stood up, stretching his long limbs. Sleeping in armour- even it was light mail- was never a pleasant task and Jaime had fallen asleep at the kitchen table after he'd been finally relieved by Ser Meryn Trant. The Footly men weren't the only ones being forced to work beyond their limits; Jaime hadn't seen Lord Commander Ser Barristan sleep even once the past three days- and the old knight had expected no less dedication from the rest of the Kingsguard. _Yeah, right_ …

As it happened, Lord Commander Barristan was the first person he spotted when he walked into the small castle yard- the white Kingsguard plate armour shining like a star even in the dim light of the dawn. He was talking to a knight in full black plate and greathelm with a silver trout dancing on the breastplate. Four Goldcloaks were ahorse behind them; one of them held the Royal standard- the Crowned Stag rampant while another held a banner depicting a black trout over blue and red streams- known to all the Seven Kingdoms as the personal banner of the Ser Brynden of House Tully, the new Master of Laws under the Iron Throne.

"Ser Jaime," greeted Lord Commander Barristan with a short bow. "It appears the road has been secured. We will be able to leave by noon, by grace of the Seven!"

"Kingslayer!" came Ser Brynden's greeting in a tone one usually reserved for describing things stuck underneath one's boot.

"You could've left on the very first day itself," came an irritated voice from within Ser Brynden's greathelm. "I've been sending Gold cloaks to every village around the King's Road while marching here; none of them did anything against the Peace after Lord Renly promised to aid them. We found a few outlaws nearby- but that has always been the case since the Age of the First Men."

Ser Barristan nodded, "True, my Lord. But Lord Footly cautioned us about the outlaws in the Tumbleton hills as well. I felt prudence to be the better side of valour."

"The sixty men headed by the one-handed poacher? You should've just paid some smallfolk a few stags and they'd have gladly pointed him out to you. I crushed the fool not half a day hence."

"That is good news, my Lord. I'm sure Lord Footly's gratitude will be forthcoming."

"Footly's lucky I'm not having him flogged for dereliction of duty. Rebellious peasants on the very edge of the Crownlands! If they'd rushed you fools in strength, you'd have been sitting ducks around that clunky carts of yours!" sneered the Blackfish while pointing at gauntleted finger at the Royal wheelhouse. On this, Jaime had to agree; going was slow with the bloody things constant getting stuck in ditches and troughs. And since they were so uncomfortable, poor Tommen could barely sleep a wink unless the road was perfectly maintained or they were at rest.

"True, my Lord. I've personally found them very inconvenient and uncomfortable as well."

"Beastly things, I know that well. Haven't been in one since I was eight… I've had enough of your Keep, Lord Commander. Now if you would excuse me, I have duties to attend to," finished the Blackfish before he barked a word and he and his riders went storming out of the Keep with a flurry of steel and silk…

"The Goldcloaks look different. It seems Ser Brynden has been busy while we were gone," observed Jaime. The very fact that they were out in force in Tumbleton- dozens of miles from their usual haunts- was proof enough. As well as the Blackfish's mention that they'd crushed a notorious outlaw within a day of entering the Reach.

"He is an honoured knight and a born leader of men," agreed Ser Barristan while staring at the Royal guest rooms built at the side of Footly's Keep. _No doubt thinking about the prospect of Renly as Master of Laws_ , guessed Jaime. There had been rumours at Lannisport that Robert would've chosen his newly come-of-age youngest brother for the position upon returning to King's Landing- an understandable alarming prospect to Ser Barristan and possibly, the Hand. Ser Brynden, on the other hand, was a tried and tested warrior and commander, honourable to the bone, and- as Jaime noted as he saw Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount stumble into view still rubbing the sleep form their eyes- was good enough to cut through the half the Kingsguard paid off by his sister at will.

But then again that could even be said for half the stable boys in the City…

It was easily three hours past noon when they finally set out. There had been suggestions by Renly that they stay on another night- but both Robert and Ser Brynden had overruled them. Robert didn't want to spend a single hour more than necessary in the Reach, and the Blackfish was simply eager to start marching for King's Landing. The Master of Law had outlined a strict hierarchy of travel; the outermost shell of their party consisted of two hundred mounted Reachmen- but the scouts were all experienced trackers and woodsmen the Blackfish had hired from the Kingswood. Then came a hundred Goldcloaks, a third of the force from King's Landing. The rest made up the van and the rear-guard. And the centre of all this were the three hundred of the Royal party, clustered around the carts and the Royal Wheelhouse, headed by the King, Renly, their retinue and a few of the Kingsguard.

The weather was pristine

, with blue skies and nary a cloud in sight. Birds sped around them, diving and rising like dancers. They were on the Rose Road now, as it curved over the low hills of Tumbleton before speeding into the Kingswood- and after that, King's Landing. Below them, in the valley of the Mander stretched miles and miles of golden stalks, as high as Jaime's shoulder if he'd been afoot- the fruit of the Reach, basket of the Seven Kingdoms.

So, it was surprising for Jaime to see Ser Barristan wince every time he paused to appreciate the view.

"Lord Commander," asked Ser Arys as he came up to them, "You look disturbed. Do you suspect an ambush ahead? _" Here comes Ser Goody-Two-Shoes_ , thought Jaime. Ser Aryn Oakheart was the youngest among them, and the least jaded, the most care-free- and in the eyes of all, the most honourable of the Kingsguard save Lord Commander Barristan himself. He was also a fool and an incompetent- but good knights in recent years had been loath to profane their precious honour serving alongside the Kingslayer. Ser Barristan had a soft spot for the young fool; with knights like Boros Blount and his own King-slaying self around, no wonder Ser Barristan was starved of companionship, grinned Jaime savagely.

"It's not the case, Ser Arys," Jaime overheard the old knight himself reply. "I do not doubt Ser Brynden's vigilance- but do you mark the fields below us yonder?"

"Aye, Ser. They look fruitful and prosperous," said Ser Arys.

"That is the problem," sighed Ser Barristan. "It is half a month since harvest time has passed and yet we don't see a single man or woman in the fields. Save for birds and rats, none benefits from the grain below."

Ser Arys frowned. "Can't the Lords command the harvests to be brought in?"

"Only for the peasants under their own estates," shrugged Ser Barristan. "But the landholders and the freemen and the petty merchants only pay coin and fealty to the Lords, not grain- and there are three of them for every smallfolk in a Lord's estate. No, my young Ser, when famine comes or flood, they leave the land and strike out on their own." He swept an armoured arm over the fields beneath them. "But this? The cobs are bursting with corn and the stalks are heavy with grain, and yet there is little sense in harvesting them anymore, so cheap is the fruit born by axle and bullock cart! You spoke of Lords buying grain, Ser, but how many Lords can keep up buying grain just for it to rot in their own barns? Ser Loras announced yesterday in the great Hall that Highgarden has sworn to take only Reach grain now but how long can they sustain this? "

They pitched their tents and pavilions on the north slope of a small hill, barely twenty miles away from the darkness of the Kingswood. One, two, three, five, and then hundreds of stars leapt into the dark blue sky atop them; and a cool east breeze sprang about them. There was little to do for the Kingsguard as such; Ser Barristan promptly assigned the guard detail, three knights for each half of the night while he himself stood ready throughout but the bulk of the duties were taken up by Ser Brynden and Renly himself. With nothing to do until after midnight, Jaime found himself ambling around the edge of the campsite, he found himself thinking of similar nights long ago- when he was but a squire, riding along Ser Arthur Dayne as they'd rode out from the Red Keep to crush the bandits of the Kingswood Brotherhood.

There had been hundreds of the King's Men, and the outlaws not even a fifth of their numbers- but the latter had the wood and the streams and the roads and the villages and smallfolk as well- thought Ser Arthur Dayne had taken the last two from them within a month with smiles and kindness and silver. He'd taken the Smiling Knight's head as well in a fight Jaime still saw in his dreams some nights. Dawn had glowed milk white in the shadows of the trees that day, trees that once looked so much like grasping claws and teeth to a young Lannister squire. And the Smiling Knight had been a madman, filled with rage and hate for the World and little else. In the shadows of the leaves, chivalry and savagery had clashed in a battle worthy of all the songs.

The outlaw's longsword had so many notches by the end that Ser Arthur had stopped to let him fetch a new one. "It's that white sword of yours I want," the madman told him as they resumed, though he was bleeding from a dozen wounds by then. "Then you shall have it, Ser," the Sword of the Morning replied, and made an end of it under the shadows so much like the claws and teeth of flying monsters from some fever dream…

"Ser Jaime!" he heard somebody call and turned to find Ser Arys Oakheart rushing towards him over the dark grass at the edge of the camp. "Ser Jaime, you ought not move too far away from the camp. There have been new reports from Ser Brynden's Goldcloaks. There have been riots in Cockshaw and peasants uprising and outlaws from here to Hayford Castle itself."

Cockshaw. Hayford. In Jaime's mind, a great yellow worm tunnelled through an old map upon which his Lord father had once taught him the histories of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. The maester had given up on him; though skilled in arms, the gods had not blessed Jaime with erudition- and worse, he used to twist the letters inside his head when he read them. But like the Targaryens he'd once served, Lord Tywin cared not for the capriciousness of gods and men. He'd sat beside Jaime every night, each night for three hours for four years until the young boy had learned his letters, heraldry, the histories and geographies of their land Westeros.

"Have the banners been called yet?" demanded Jaime of the young Reach knight. His Lord Father's words echoed through his head. House Cockshaw. House Appleton. House Footly… But those were nothing to them. The lack of Lord Paramount over them meant that even knightly houses in the Crownlands were wont to flaunt their power beyond their station- and Jaime doubted that House Blount, House Farring, House Hayford, and the dozens of lords and lordlings clustered between Harrenwood and King's Landing could scarce afford a guard for their Keeps. Doubtless the Goldcloaks and Lord Rosby's troops could crush any uprising in the Crownlands easily enough- if all the upper reaches of the Mander were in turmoil, the only place for them to go was King's Landing.

"News is the Fossoways and Ashfords have called their banners already. From the Crownlands, there have been riders; Lord Commander Bywater has sent another two hundred men to reinforce the men already guarding the Rose Road," answered Ser Arys worriedly. "Ser Jaime, what in the name of the Seven is happening?"

"Unrest among Smallfolk is nothing new, Ser," explained Jaime but his sworn brother interrupted him.

"Unrest during winter and want is nothing new," insisted Oakheart. "This has been one of the finest springs I remember seeing and it hasn't even ended yet! Why would any of the smallfolk rebel? Why would any protest now? It's inexplicable!"

And Jaime had no answers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


	20. Creep

**TIRO**

 **290 AC**

"Well? You don't look too happy," remarked Tiro as Lord Edmure brushed past Elmo at the door.

"Tell me about it," he muttered as he removed his much-battered mud-and-water cloak and draped it on the chair before sitting down on it. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and gratefully accepted a glass of lemon water into which Elmo poured out a shot of Lyseni White wine. "And here was I thinking it'd be a good day. Lord Jonos is nuts if he thinks I can just keel over for him!"

"What did he want?" Willem's face, stained with grease and ink, peaked out from under a Machine.

"Crazy demands. Apparently the Darrys and Blackwoods are too traitorous to ask for advice and there are no Pipers to be found at Pinkmaiden and so I must turn up there myself to guide his men. Bollocks! I can't help it if he can't send anyone riding over to Seagard and Maidenpool. Nor can I order my men to stop selling their cattle at Fairmarket. If Lord Jonos thinks he's not to going play ball, he's got another things coming for him!"

"I had feared the same," mused Tiro. "I doubted he would be very sympathetic when he refused to put up at the manor when he had come to King's Landing last week." Lord Jonos Bracken hadn't struck him as a particularly affable person- constantly complaining at the distance of the manor from the Red Keep and swearing at someone called Tytos all the time he'd been there. He had been full of complaints about cheap grain and black wood; and he'd taken offence when Tiro informed him that Lord Edmure was still at Dragonstone even though the Freeman had promised to inform Lord Edmure of his visit as soon as convenience and time permitted.

"I made a mistake by dealing with him directly," replied Lord Edmure as he took another sip of his lemon water and made a face. "I should've called the cavalry. No doubt, he'd have spoken less and sneered more if he thought he wasn't speaking with a green boy!"

"I thought he had marched out of the City a few days past?" asked Ser Willem from where he and Tiro were putting on the final calibrations for the next day.

"Yes. He's marched south with three hundred men. Some disturbance over taxes or something. Hugo was pissed off since morning. Couldn't even meet Jon; pirates in the north seas. Lord Stannis…I don't want to be in the same room with him when he hears of it." Lord Edmure took a sip of his drink and grimaced. "It's too tart," he said, making a face.

"They've been buying up all the lemons for the Tourney next week; it's Prince Joffrey's birthday. I only found these." explained Daeron apologetically. "You should've eaten lunch before going."

"I lost track of time; should've just eaten with Lysa," muttered Edmure, wincing again as he took another sip. He'd taken the disastrous breakfast the previous day badly, vanishing into his room at all times, working like a man possessed and barely talking with his men. That day as well, he'd stormed the minute he'd heard of Lord Bracken's arrival at the Red Keep- locking his door, gathering an escort of three guardsmen, and announcing that he was off to meet his family and Lord Bracken.

"Wasn't Lord Stannis' campaign meant to subdue piracy?" asked Daeron.

"It was. Two months of slogging through the Stepstones; driving them like sheep for hundreds of miles of coasts," sighed Lord Edmure heavily, shaking his head. "Ballistae firing, Scorpion bolts in the skies, marines fighting ship to ship! He won't be pleased to hear about pirates so soon."

"Judging from Lord Stannis' reputation, he isn't a man to leave things half done, is he?" Daeron was right; Tiro had heard much about Stannis of House Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone. He was impeccable in his sense of justice and duty, and utterly friendless save for, perhaps, his infamous lowborn Onion knight.

"That's he's not," Lord Edmure raised his glass and declared in a tired voice. "To Lord Stannis, the man of iron!" No one answered his insipid toast thought; simply because no one of them had a glass.

"Good thing they're in the north then, not our trouble," remarked young Oswell.

"So? Where did the pirates come from then?" Daeron pressed on. He had a deep and abiding passion for the sea Tiro had rarely seen in anyone. After Ser Davos' botched visit, the only consolation was that Daeron had got along like fire with the Onion knight. "Can't be the Ironborn- not within a year of being broken. The Basilisk isles are too far away…"

Edmure shrugged carelessly and continued sipping his drink. Ser Willem told his squire, "Simple then. These are not pirates. They are sellswords pretending to be ones."

"But why?"

"There are probably hired by one nation to attack others. They're a sort of unofficial navy; especially for us Essosi where open warfare is a danger to trade and avoided," explained Tiro as he locked the final screw into place and set the print block down. He and Ser Willem shook hands. Despite the shortage of lettered workers, they'd slowly but steadily been working on bigger and bigger projects for the machine. Lord Edmure's original draft- a slapdash effort they'd made with the help of a Riverlands blacksmith from a tiny village whose name only Lord Edmure knew- over an year and half back had been a very simple affair, barely able to print a single page before requiring tightening and calibration again.

Together, Lord Edmure and he had improved it to the point where they could even set the force applied by the press onto the paper. For secrecy, they'd made it such that it could be assembled and disassembled- and had each individual part made by a different blacksmith in King's Landing. They'd ordered nearly twenty copies from each man then. Tiro had put it down to overcautiousness on his part at first for repairs- but then he'd seen the wisdom in it. Now, even five of them could put together a Machine from its parts within half an hour- a system Lord Edmure had called 'Assembly Line Manufacturing.'

Lord Edmure had originally wanted to publish books with the Machines. But given they had no proper ink at first and the time and training it took to operate a Machine, he'd decided to slowly scale up operations at the rate of one new machine every month. Now they had ten working simultaneously- two of which they'd set up that very day after Lord Edmure's return.

The House of Saar had been extremely interested in the pamphlets they had been using; three weeks ago one of their representatives, a flamboyant purple-bearded Tyroshi had landed at their manor and offered them a star for each label they printed for him. He'd balked at Tiro's counter of three but promised to return and speak with Lord Edmure directly later. He'd also offered an entire stag if they could include images- coloured images at that- within the labels. Tiro had taken it as a challenge; and though he hadn't discussed it with the others, had decided to spend quite some time on making such blocks himself.

Lady Aenera had taken a very different approach, trying to buy a Machine outright. She'd quote two thousand dragons, then ten thousand, then thirteen and fifteen- until Tiro would get up and march out of her rooms without a word. He'd have avoided them if possible entirely- but since they were obligated to give her daily reports on the wine trade and he was the only one among them who spoke trader's Valyrian, the responsibility fell upon him. Now that Lord Edmure was back, Tiro fully expected representatives from the Serenate, the Hess, the Bael, and other powerful merchant Houses to turn up as well. It wasn't just the money; Lord Edmure had often spoken of starting his own factories where he could manufacture things like furniture and carriages- though only the Seven knew what he was thinking after the day's disappointment.

Tiro was still lost in his thoughts when he gathered up the reports for the day and trudged towards Lady Aenera's rooms. The behaviour of the Westerosi in the morning had been incredible…maybe they ought to approach someone from the Free Cities instead?

Lady Aenera was out in the yard, trailed by the usual two hulking guards. She looked positively happy about something and was softly patting Harry's head, the bull now resting after his afternoon's exertions and chewing his cud contently. _Tenderizing the meat early, are we?_ thought Tiro as he coughed to get her attention.

"Tiro!" she greeted him cheerfully with a smile- one that Tiro didn't return. Freemen were only sworn to uphold their former masters' secrets and aid them in counsel, not act like they liked doing any of that. He handed her the day's report- deliberately written on their own yellow paper because the sight of it infuriated her and turned to leave.

"What!" she called out after him. "I heard Edmure has returned."

"That he has," he said suspiciously. "I suppose he will meet you tomorrow morning. He was busy yesterday and returned late today as well." _Too busy to meet you in particular…_

"A secret meeting, wasn't it?" she asked, eyes glimmering with curiosity. "I already know it was the Onion Knight he discussed with. The only question is figuring out what he discussed."

"Those are oath sworn words. I cannot help you there," Tiro said flatly as he turned to leave. Lady Aenera stared at him, a smirk on her face, and then turned her attention to the reports. The sight of her eyes rushing across the pages was uncanny; it was much faster than Tiro's own reading speed- and only slower than Lord Edmure's.

It was, Tiro noted for the umpteenth time since coming into Lord Edmure's company, strange how much Lord Edmure had in common with the merchant-princes of Essos than his own knightly kin of Westeros. Reading and writing were fairly common among the nobility of Westeros. Even minor merchants and landed knights could read, according to what Ser Willem had once told him, but he'd also added that repeated and continuous reading was confined only to the Citadel and some of the bigger Houses and Septries. Ser Willem had barely read a page apart from what his mother- for his family was too poor to have a maester at their manor- had taught him in his childhood; his learning the ropes under Tiro's guidance was a reason for pride for the young freeman as well as a firm basis for their friendship. Tiro was under no illusions about the importance of birth in Westeros though; friendship with someone like Ser Willem, little more than hedge-knight, was reasonable for an educated freeman. A High Lord wouldn't have even taken a second look at him. The same for Daeron and the Sattler twins as well- though Ser Hugo and Perwyn seemed to be naturally friendly by nature.

It was in cases like this that Essos, despite its ills, stood out in comparison _. A slave could rise to be a merchant-prince in Essos with luck and skill,_ Tiro thought. _In Westeros, only blood and steel can change anything_.

Though Lord Edmure seemed to have tried at his hand at changing things with a quill and ink. His skill at business was middling- but what he lacked in ability, he made in enthusiasm and unpredictability, and Tiro- from his experience as one of Garraphos' accountant- supplied the rest. And then came Lord Edmure's mechanical abilities. He'd been responsible for designing a device to lift ships through something he called Pascal's Law. The device itself was still unbuilt- but he and Tiro had made small models the previous year which had worked admirably. Then had come Lord Edmure's Penny-farthing cycle and the Greatcoat which was, unfortunately, too late to be used for Winter. Even the smallest things he'd created were wondrous to Tiro's eyes- for example, a strip of rolled steel which could store the force applied on it and push back like a bucking horse; though Lord Edmure had been insistent that it was not his skill, but a trick of the type of steel used, a type he'd discovered by chance while roaming the Street of Steel.

Lord Edmure was not in the Machine rooms by the time Tiro had run back; after searching wildly for a few minutes, he found him was conversing with Ser Willem by the docks, gesticulating wildly and kicking stones into the sea at intervals.

"…will be high, possibly twenty, maybe twenty four dragons a year…" said Ser Willem impatiently as Tiro caught up with them.

Lord Edmure grumbled, "I'm not hiring masters for simply churning out spare parts; a single master cast and a few good apprentices, that's all we need. You're here, Tiro? Good, Willem and I were just talking about the workers we'll need for Riverstadt."

"We ought to be first discussing hiring soldiers for Riverstadt," muttered Ser Willem morosely. "Harroway and Saltpans aren't going to keel over you, are they? And I may be sworn to you but I'm not feeling suicidal. Not yet- though that may change if our creditors come calling…"

"Christ! I don't understand this- what is your problem with debt!" snarled Lord Edmure- putting voice to a question playing on Tiro's mind as well. "You do realize that the sole reason those small Volantene traders of Silk and Spices even sell to us is because we pay them in honors, don't you? Well- where on Earth am I going those honors if not Aenera! There won't be any difference between me and some shady Braavosi with a paper!"

"A paper is still better than two hundred thousand dragons, isn't it," grimaced Ser Willem. "Our debt is wrong!"

"Wrong, is it? What the hell are you even talking about…!" exclaimed Lord Edmure.

Suddenly, Tiro realized what was going on. He held up his hand and asked slowly, "Ser Willem, can I ask why you think Debt is bad for us?"

Ser Willem looked flabbergasted. He looked from him to Lord Edmure and back again. He started speaking rapidly, incoherently, "You can't be serious, Sers! It is wrong, wrong! Being in the power of a lender! You're Andals. You must have read the Seven Pointed…"

"Wait a minute!" broke in Lord Edmure, his face a battleground for surprise and indignation. "First of all- Tiro's an Andal. We may worship the Seven but the Tullys aren't, strictly speaking. And secondly, don't tell me you were all losing your minds back there because of something the fat preacher diddling little boys at Baelor's Sept said!"

"It's not what that heretic says, Ser," Ser Willem said stiffly, "It's in there in the Seven Pointed Star as well! In the Song of Hammers, the Smith himself says- _Throw off the girdle and chain of the pledge, and drink deep the joy of an open heart!_ In the Book of the Warrior, does not he exhort men to pay attention to his herds, and his alone- for ill comes to the man who steals or borrows? And does not the Father himself say- _Do not be among those who give pledges, nor among those who take them. If you have nothing with which to pay, why should your mind be taken from the gods_? Lord Edmure…?"

"Willem, I think I'm going to start worshipping the goddamned trees from now."

"Ser! Don't say that you don't worship the Old Gods already!" came the shocked reply.

This time it was Lord Edmure's turn to be surprised. "You worship both the Old gods and the New?

"Well, I don't know who's right, do I? Many others also pray to both…"

"Ser Willem, doesn't the Seven Pointed Star also contain injunctions not to sleep under an elm tree? And to avoid fishing on holidays or not to walk in the shadow of a pigeon?" Tiro pointed out- much to Lord Edmure's amusement and Ser Willem's embarrassment.

"Dear gods, you two are hilarious!" Lord Edmure's laughter rang out over the water, making more than a few stevedores in the distance look at them. Finally when his shoulders had stopped shaking and he'd got his breath back, he told Ser Willem, "Look, debt can be abused. Who doubts it? The ability to create money can be abused. Again, who would argue otherwise? But for goodness sake, _everything_ of value can be abused, from land to love to food to friendship!"

Ser Willem groaned, "But if she calls in our debts tomorrow, can we pay them? We won't be the first to be at the mercy of a mad money-lender."

"We Essosi have safe-guards against such things," Tiro told him. "Loan sharks and capricious Lords are not good for trade. Reputations matter and no one will trust a House which infringed upon one worth two hundred thousand dragons."

"She won't call the debt in before five years are past," Lord Edmure assured the two, "And even if she does, there's nothing to stop me from besmirching her name or even calling Jon Arryn's help. I don't think many Essosi merchant-princes will like to have a fraud in their midst ruining their dealings with Westerosi nobles. But still…you are right in part, Willem. Asking for debt restructuring or for tranching…Fuck, even Tiro's looking confused. I'll think of a better way to fund this then. How much do we pay her every month, Tiro?"

"Five thousand, Six thousand," Tiro tried to recall. "About a third our profits after taxes. Nothing for the timber though, the Red Keep takes almost all of it and pays Ser Hugo & Yohn who use it for paying the workers at Maidenpool. I think Mooton's embezzling some of the funds though, my Lord. It sticks out clear as a thumb with the new accounts!"

"Maidenpool? Ah yes, I'd forgotten Yohn's report! I'd thought the descriptions curios but anyhow… Maybe, yes, maybe and that'll stand me in good stead with my Lord Father and his allies as well…" Lord Edmure stroked his chin, his brows furrowed in though before shooting a question. "Willem, how much do you think a man needs to live for a year?"

Willem almost jumped at the strange query. "I would say eight hundred stags ought to be enough?"

"Hmm…How much do I pay you two?"

"Nothing," drawled Ser Willem amusedly as Tiro started laughing at the irony, "Come to think of it, you're not much different from our Lady Vampire in this regard!"

Edmure scowled. "Well, pay yourself fifty dragons each from the Strongboxes and then join me with some... No, it's too dark for my plans today anyway. Willem, would you say eight thousand dragons would be enough to incite four thousand smallfolk to go wherever I want them to?"

"From what I've seen in King's Landing, half that would suffice," opined Tiro.

"No, I want peasants, proper honest peasants," muttered Lord Edmure. "You think you can ride and convince some from up the Rush? Tiro will pay you whatever you need."

Willem winced. "Houses Langward and Pyle are over there. They won't like it but the lands are effectively lawless. I'll see what I can do. But I think I'll offer them six hundred stags; that ought to be enough for half a year of luxury and it'll attract tradesmen- especially young apprentices- as well. "

"That's that then…" sighed Lord Edmure. "There's a fair nip in the air, isn't there?"

"Summer storms. Gods help the poor souls at sea today, "said Tiro.

"I'll have the stevedores and workers hurry up work," added Willem, chewing his lower lip. "I'll have people go around and close the manor windows as well. Last storm, we had a few wooden shutters torn right off."

"Perhaps we ought to look into getting a permanent carpenter for the place; it's a shame to have so much wood and land and no one to work it. Anyhow, I'm off to the Red Keep; try convince Lysa to see the benefits of evening walks a bit more clearly. I'll return in the morning; would be nice if you could set up the rest of the Machines by then!"

"Lord Edmure, there are ten of them!" protested Ser Willem.

"I know. But, Willem, does not the Holy Book say: Do all things without grumbling or questioning, that you may be without blemish…?"

"Really? Which book is that?"

"The Book of Edmure," chuckled their Lord. "What else?"


	21. The Battle on Ice

**EDDARD**

 **290 AC**

For four hours they'd been riding, first west and north-west and then due north, swinging far away from the river mouth to lessen the chances of any tracker or scout the Wildlings may have deployed. Then after two hours of meagre rest, came yet another gruelling ride of three hours ride to the north and east to get close enough for a surprise attack on foot. A cold wind blew at them from them north and a mild snowfall upon the narrow track made going even more arduous- but the dark wilderness of trees that surrounded them protected them from the worst of the weather. Even so, the snow had permeated every inch of the ground- and there were stones and roots and hollows and sinkholes all over the ground. Seven horses had gone lame during their ride- and Eddard had but no option to do leave the men dismounted thus, moping near their downed beasts to climb a tree, shiver the night away and then trudge back alone to the camp come dawn. Each of them had been left with a bow and a few arrows though, and instructions to edge as close to the trail as they could and watch for Wildlings- and worse.

Far off in the forest, they heard a wolf howl- and as the cry died away, they finally heard the sound of running water- and underneath the tinkling of the river, the screams and sounds of metal and men.

"The idiots!" snarled the Greatjon. "It's barely dawn!" Around him, their men nodded grimly as they clasped their axes and greatswords atop their horses. Few of them carried lances; not that they could've used them in the woods and the riverbeds properly.

"Tell the men to dismount, Lord Umber" Eddard commanded Lord Umber who nodded grimly and signalled two of his men to pass the message along their line. There were nearly four hundred of them, a tenth of his force- men from Last Hearth and Karhold and Winterfell, tough as nails and veterans of half a dozen battles both in the North and South. They were to be the strong Hammer to Lord Bolton's Anvil and Lord Wull's tongs.

"Should we lead the horses along, Ned, or leave them here?" asked the Greatjon.

"We can't lead them on the banks, and the bed's too stony," said Lord Karstark. "Let us leave a guard and be done with it." His advice was taken. They left the horses secreted in a copse, and guarded by twenty five men with instructions to wait for two days and nights- and if no news came, to flee to Castle Black. They left the place with the guards hurriedly cutting branches for a rough and ready fence; there were Direwolves beyond the Wall- and two hundred horses would make a rare feast for a fearless pack.

The Storrold seemed to gleam white and crystal under the waning moon. It was a small river by any standards- but the icy hills from where it came and the runoff from the snow made it a rain torrent that rushed over the stony, shallow river bed like a rampaging great elk. Lord Karstark signalled and five of their party, trackers by the look of their light mail and great longbows, sped in front of them. "Send ten more," advised Crowfood, and it was done.

They heard the battle before they saw it.

And then they saw it.

In front of them, streaks of pink and satin blue raised their fingers over the tops of the dark forest and stony white rock around them. Already the stars were vanishing from the eastern sky, replaced by the deep blue of morning.

And there not half a mile in front of them, the battle raged.

The camp was vast, spread all over the many mouths on the rocky ground that made up the mouth of the Storrold. There were cookfires all along the river, amongst wayns and carts and sleds- though few now seemed interested in food. Many of the wildlings had thrown up tents, of hide and skin and felted wool where they now cowered in. Others sheltered behind rocks in crude lean-tos, or crowded near their crude wagons. And at the centre of all that…

"Gods defend us!" muttered Lord Karstark from his side.

"I don't believe it!" came the Smalljon's awed voice as they stared at the massive Free Cities galley beached on the stony, shallow bed of the Storrold.

"Just thank the gods it isn't one of ours," said Eddard as he drew Ice from the sheath at his back. "Let us march, my Lords!"

A full three thousand men were throwing themselves upon the Bolton shieldwall, trying to defend the camps. Again and again they charged, a horde of howling, screaming, shrieking men- frothing at their mouths and tearing at their own hair- and again and again were they thrown back by the interlocked shields and pikes and spears of the Northmen. Javelins came flying from spearwives and boys behind the Wildling line- but the Northmen simply closed ranks and lifted their shields. Eddard spied a tall man dressed completely in black hurl spear after spear at the Northern shieldwall but to no avail. To the right, there went on a desperate struggle between the Ryswell knights and the cream of the Wildling force; among them the tallest man Eddard had seen in his life- only matched by Gregor Clegane himself.

"That one's a ruddy giant!" exclaimed Smalljon as he spotted the figure Eddard had been staring at- but most of the men there paid little attention. The ground was uneven and rough, not to mention slippery at places, and going was tough. There was a delay when the man carrying the Sunburst banner fell and cut his forehead on the rocks and there were three more men who sprained their feet and had to be left behind to limp behind them- but they finally managed to fall into a battle line and raise the banners.

All at once, there were cries from their left. Norrey, said one. Wull, said another. Harclay, said one more. Behind Eddard as he started sprinting towards the camps, rang other cries. Karhold! Last Hearth! Wolfswood! Winterfell! Until Eddard found himself shouting "FOR THE NORTH!" And soon "FOR THE NORTH" rang from every corner of the battlefield, rising to the skies.

A vast mass of women, children, old men and crones rushed out from the camps, crying with fear and terror, raising their voices in grief and tears. Eddard estimated three hundred Wildlings in front of them, then five hundred, possibly a thousand- and then he stopped counting. Eddard spotted their black-clad leader turn away from where the Bolton shieldwall stood firm and rush towards them, towards the Direwolf banner- the great abiding symbol of servitude and lordship to the hordes beyond the Wall.

Now spearwives were moving ahead, marching slowly with rude stone spears and stone axes in their hands, with one or two iron knives glinting within the throng. A handful of men- raiders by the looks of them, with curious curved swords- were interspersed among them. A chant arose among them…ALFYN! ALFYN! ALFYN!

The dark cloaked figure- the infamous raider Alfyn Crowkiller, Eddard guessed- yelled a piercing cry as he clambered onto a waiting red-grey garron and spurred it forward. In a flash, it was taken up by the entire host- men, women and children, old and young, spearwives and raiders- and in the next moment, two thousand Wildlings were charging a quarter mile of stony, icy riverbed towards them. Their four hundred.

The two lines met.

Ice chopped off a spear point, twirled to block a sword stroke, and then returned to swipe off the head of the spearwife looking at her ruined spear in surprise. Then it twisted like a living thing, blocked the follow-up cut from a sword, swung once again and opened the Wildling's chest. Eddard watched almost impersonally as Ice then transcended a high, wide arc- cutting through the skulls of two raiders charging at him with raised stone axes. Before the bodies had hit the ground, Ice was moving again, albeit a bit weakly- and Eddard found an axe in his right hand. A moment later, and the axe was embedded in a spearwife's head and Ice was breaking another spear and the wrist that held it- before making a great circle to fend off another spearwife with an iron-and-bone dagger.

A huge bear of a man, wielding a stone axe in each hand, was stuck by an arrow on his left shoulder. He howled with pain, and overbalanced. The fall seemed to have broken his leg for he didn't get up- but half-lifted himself up on his arms and started yelling curses to the skies- until another raider tripped upon him and went down; neither of them got up for the Smalljon had transfixed them both to the ground with his greatsword.

Eddard tore his eyes from the grotesque sight, just in time to impale a rushing youth on Ice. He jerked out the sword from the still-breathing corpse and swung it in a wide arc again and another raider went down. Just then he was tackled from behind; a strong arm hitting his side again and again until Eddard swept an armoured arm around the Wildling's neck and snapped it and the man's curious dagger dropped from his hand as he fell to the ground dead. From the corner of his eye, Eddard saw one of the Wildlings break, then another, then ten and forty- until one in three among them was screaming and fleeing, unwilling to face the Lords of the North. And ahead of them, Crowkiller, still shrieking like a gutted pig, spurred his garron forward and, cursing the name of the Wolfkings, rushed at them. But the Northmen had fought cavalry without spears a thousand times; they knelt and thrust their greatswords forward. As expected, the horse shied from the swords and invited yet another blow to its head from the Wilding atop it, then started to charge again, shied yet again, got another blow, and then reared up and threw its torturer down.

"CROWKILLER! AT ME! AT ME!" Eddard heard himself shout.

A trio of raiders, scarcely older than Tallhart's eldest son who'd just come of age, charged at him- and were slain. A keen screaming started, climbed higher and higher, and went on as if for ever- and then ended when Ice broke the skull and helmet of bone that held the tongue that uttered it. Then in front of him was a tempest of black cloaks and bone helm and steel sword, striking from one side and then another, feinting and spitting and dancing on the stony ground. A steel point rose to meet his eyes, and when he'd blocked it, another and another and yet another, and Crowkiller kicked him on the breastplate so hard that Eddard was knocked off his feet onto the stony ground. His head rang and for a second Eddard was blinded- but something was screaming at him to move, and Crowkiller's blade came down at the exact point where his head had been a second ago. There was another flash of black in the corner of his eye and Eddard moved and felt an iron edge slide off his pauldron with a screech of steel. And then Ice opened the man in front of him from navel to jaw.

"He looks pretty harmless now," he heard Smalljon say as the Umber heir marched up to him. The Wildling host were fleeing back to the camps, surrendering, weeping and gnashing their teeth. The riverbed was littered with corpses; Wildling outnumbered Northman almost twenty to one- their fur coats and primitive weapons and unfamiliar steel and lack of discipline useless in front of the armed and armoured northern veterans. Nearly five hundred men and women had been slain, and lay under the winter sun. Far to the east, he saw the Wulls and Harclays rush from the trees behind the Wildling host- and thousands of women and children throw down arms and sit down in surrender; he looked around and saw no Wildling men left; save for those old and decrepit or dead and dying in the Storrold. Eddard asked the Smalljon how long the battle had lasted and was surprised to know that nearly an hour had passed since the swords first clashed.

Towards the South, the grim contest between the Northern Shieldwall and the Wildling mass went on- but the Ryswell knights looked like they'd been on the receiving end of things. As Eddard watched, a banner- a direwolf banner- rose, and Winterfell cavalry slammed into the Wildling champions opposing the Ryswells. In the distance, Eddard spied a score of Harclay riders trying to break a schiltrom.

"Ned! Ned!" He heard the Greatjon calling him and turned. The Umber Lord came up to him, swinging his ugly six foot blade around like a twig, with Lord Karstark limping close behind him using his sheathed greatsword as a crutch.

"There, Ned!" The Greatjon pointed towards where the Northern cavalry was locked into combat with the cream of the Wildling host. "Fifteen minutes and we'll catch them in the rear."

"Then do it yourself," grunted Lord Karstark as he collapsed to the ground near them and pawed at his right boot. "They may have been Wildlings but they were vicious and rested. I fear I have twisted my ankle and most of our men are too tired for another fray as this."

"Ha! You've grown old, Rickard, if feeble women and old men can make this of you!" laughed the Greatjon unkindly.

"There were six raiders at once, my Lord. You can assure the truth of my words once I've sent you to join them."

"Ned, the Karhold's lord has turned craven! But don't worry; Just give me the word! I'm sure young Harrion will be a better servant to Winterfell than old breakleg here!"

"Lord Rickard, Greatjon, tired as we are, fight we must," said Eddard softly and there were no more arguments. "I will lead the men. Gather a hundred among the host we had. The ones too tired to fight can help secure the prisoners alongside the mountain clans."

"Wouldn't it be better to tell Lord Wull to send the men instead?" asked Lord Karstark wearily as he massaged his ankle, which was swelling like a giant blackberry in front of their eyes. "His men are fresher than ours."

"They also wear little armour but mail," explained Eddard, "and most of them have only spears. But you are right. Lord Rickard, tell Lord Wull to send two hundred men behind me; tell him to hem the three thousand facing Bolton in. That ought to be enough."

"Aye, Ned," nodded Lord Rickard weakly. "Apologies for not joining you in this clash."

But it was then that they heard a horn blowing in the wind- and Qhorin Halfhand and twenty of his brothers burst out of the trees on horses with stout war lances, eight feet long, couched under their arms. Their very first charge struck deep into the handful of spearwives and boys who'd been aiding the assault on Bolton's shieldwall- scattering and driving them back. Then the Black brothers broke off and reformed before charging once again at the back of the mass fighting the Northern cavalry. The Wildings had outnumbered the Northerners almost two to one- and they outnumbered Qhorin's tiny band almost thirty-to-one- but the shock of the cavalry charge, the presence of the enemies on all sides and the sight of Qhorin Halfhand himself skewering their giant champion with his lance on his very first pass broke them- and soon they were rushing down the river bed confused and terrified and sitting ducks for the Cassel's riders.

Another horn blew then- deeper than Halfhand's- and the three lords watched the Northern Shieldwall rise and shake- like some great dragon waking itself from sleep- and march forward. At the sight alone, a full half of the Wildlings broke and fled towards where Lord Wull's men were securing the prisoners. A Wilding dressed in ermine with a goose feather crest tried to rally them- but Jory Cassel came riding up and took his head with a single swipe of his longsword. Another horn sounded and the Northern shieldwall dissolved- and forward came over a hundred Bolton men with wicked longaxes in their arms, headed by Roose Bolton himself. They fell upon the remaining wildlings like beasts and hacked at wood and fur and flesh like great lumbermen hewing the great trees in the Wolfswood and within half a minute, the Wildlings were broken and running, leaving their dead in front of Bolton like a thousand bloody rugs.

Eddard gave the word and soon they were moving as well, only Lord Karstark staying behind with two hundred men to secure the perimeter. Down they drove the Wilding prisoners they'd taken. Down the Wulls and Norrey drove their prisoners as well. From their right the Winterfell cavalry and the barrowknights were rounding up any stragglers they could find while in the centre Bolton and Flint and Ryswell men were securing the centre. In the distance, a handful of Wildlings- mostly women and old- could be seen escaping but one thing was certain.

The greatest host seen north of the Wall in decades had been completely and comprehensively destroyed.

They met beneath the great beached galley that had awed Eddard and his company in the morning. It lay on its side on small white and grey and black stones that made up the Storrold's banks; two hundred oars sticking into the air like the ribs of some fantastic dead whale.

And on each of the two hundred oars- sharpened laboriously into stakes, was impaled a 'brown man'.

"Myrish," Lord Bolton had whispered, his pale eyes glistening with some emotion Eddard couldn't identify. "Not all of them were slaves."

"There are no survivors from what Ebben told me," the Halfhand told them. He had been impressed but not surprised at the sight. "The raiders have ways of tricking the galleys into running aground, my Lords, "he'd explained. "I've seen it earlier. That's where they got those Arakhs from."

"Foolish of them," Eddard muttered while running his eyes over the vast carcass of the ship. Arakhs were little use against the armour of the Westerosi, no matter how well they served the Dothraki hordes. The Wildlings would've been better off melting the steel to forge better weapons- but then again, smiths were rare among them. "But two hundred oars? I can hardly believe it!"

"They can be full of surprises," shrugged the Halfhand as he ran his eyes over the nigh six thousand they'd taken captive. Most of the Wildling warriors had been slain- and the few who had survived, had scattered to the four winds. The Crowkiller was dead. Harma Dogshead was dead, slain by Softfoot in the morning's ambush; they hadn't even known that she'd been with the host. The Weeper had escaped the minute he'd suspected a trap but Rattleshirt had clashed with Qhorin before leaving and had left behind his right arm.

In contrast, the Northmen had barely lost two hundred, the Night's Watch none. Peter Norrey had been slain though and Roger Ryswell had lost the fingers on his left hand as he'd pressed on heedlessly despite his father's warnings and been thrown down from his horse before Jory had been able to rescue him.

"I'll have all the boys between three and eight in the lot, Lord Stark," said the Halfhand quietly. "They will grow up to be honourable men and brothers to the Night's Watch."

"Not the youth or the raiders?" exclaimed Lord Umber from where he was apologizing to Lord Karstark for the morning's words. His surprise was understandable, thought Eddard. It was well known the Night's Watch was short in numbers.

Dywen shook his head. "Just askin' fer trouble. Puttin' enemies in the Watch."

"The Black Brother is right," growled Lord Ryswell, "Put them all to death, Lord Stark. I will have revenge for my poor boy's hand."

"Revenge?" Lord Cerwyn's eyes were wide with surprise and horror. "Ser, there are thousands of women and children among them! Just because we have to face spearwives in battle doesn't mean we ought to go around slaughtering them in cold blood!"

Lord Ryswell, seething with rage, stared at him blankly but it was Lord Bolton who answered for the barrowlord. "Revenge is the right of any Northman, Lord Cerwyn. Surely, you won't grudge this truth for callow declarations of Southron chivalry."

"Aye, revenge. Revenge and justice," spat out Lord Karstark from where he sat, massaging his battered ankle. "Cregan has had an ear taken off and I've ruined my ankle. And then there's that poor Norrey lad killed as well!"

"Rickard is right," came Lord Norrey's heavy, plodding voice. "I will have wergild for Peter."

"They will be judged for their actions against the North," agreed Eddard wearily. In times like this, the Northlords had to be humoured- or blood flowed. "And the guilty will get their just punishments according to the law. As for the rest of them…" He turned to the hundreds of shivering, terrified prisoners at their hands. "We will see…"


	22. The Whetstone

**TYRION**

 **290 AC**

"My Lord Jon," called out Tyrion as he spotted the harassed looking Hand of the King. "I have meaning to speak with you these few days."

"Can it not wait, my Lord Tyrion?" was the weary reply. The Hand looked tired as well, great dark circles surrounded his eyes and his back was more stooped and his shoulders more rounded than ever. "The ravens from Tumbleton haven't been the most reassuring of news. I can hardly give you much time."

Ordinarily, Tyrion might've concurred with him. There were few things Tyrion dreaded than to ever be at the mercy of a band of capricious smallfolk. In that, he'd been lucky to born in a cultured and learned high-born family where he was loved and his talents appreciated- at least when Lord Tywin was not in hearing. Even worse- the lot of smallfolk in the Reach was often worse off than in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion remembered uncle Tygett reading the histories of the West to Jaime and him when his brother still lived at the Rock. After what must've been hundreds of tales about valiant outnumbered Westerlanders crushing the knightly hordes from the Reach, Jaime had remarked that as bad as the lion's bite may be, maybe the roars were getting a bit too loud.

Uncle Tygett had laughed until tears came from his eyes. "Never say that in front of Tywin, boys," he chuckled once the guffaws had ended. "You are right in part. Heavens only know what the true stories were before the singers got hold of them. But every legend has a beginning, Jaime. Remember that."

"So, Westerlander knights are truly mightier than any other in Westeros?" Tyrion had asked, his eyes bright with curiosity and pride.

"Indeed, Tyrion!" Uncle Tygett had ruffled his hair. "Our lands are rocky and poor- but the same hills lend us their strength. The Reach's plains and fecundity produce valiant knights but that means they have little need for stout infantry. That may be true on open ground but here in the West?" He'd waved to the red hills that they could see from half the out-facing rooms of Casterly Rock. "In our hills, their levees can be broken and their knights isolated and pulled down." _Isolated and pulled down_. And Jaime and this nephews and niece were trapped at Tumbleton.

 _And Cersei. How can anyone forget her?_ Tyrion had barely slept the past three days, tossing and turning in his bed, running the now-missing Spider's parting words again and again in his mind. What cheese-monger was Varys even talking about? What dealings with Cersei have with them? Where did the Paenymions come into this? And what were the Arryns and Tullys doing within all of this?

Tyrion had little faith in the eunuch's words about the Targaryens though. Cersei would've little reason to love then- and the Tullys and Arryns even less. Robert may not have been the warrior he was even two years ago, but he could still wield his warhammer like the Warrior made flesh- and his armies would be led by men like Tywin Lannister, Eddard Stark and Stannis Baratheon, men who wouldn't blink even in the face of Balerion, the Black Dread- let alone the powerless Targaryen king and his sister in the East. The only chance the Targaryens would have would be Dorne and the Reach…and Tumbleton was in the Reach…But that would be madness!

"My Lord Tyrion? You look perturbed." Jon's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I apologize, my Lord!" Tyrion gave him a short blow. "Just thinking over the recent events."

"Yes, I ought to have paid more attention to the letters… But I see no reason to be overly concerned, my Lord. His Grace has now five hundred men with him and from what I hear, Lord Renly has handled the concerns of the smallfolk admirably already. Once the King's Road has been fully secured, the Royal entourage will be here within the week."

"That is good to hear. I presume Ser Brynden has already left?"

"He did two days ago," Jon sighed. "Now I'm beginning to understand why he and Lord Hoster never got along. By the Gods, what a man! Poor Nestor!"

"He hasn't killed the Spider, has he?" Tyrion laughed uneasily. "I haven't seen him the past three days."

"Lord Varys?" Jon grimaced as he drew out from his sash and drank from a hip flask. "I've charged him with some duties regarding the Reach. But I met him but yesterday, my Lord. Surely he's still in the Red Keep!"

 _So, the Spider was avoiding him? But maybe I would have done the same to avoid suspicion_. "He must be a more conscientious man than me, my Lord," Tyrion laughed off the matter. "I confess I'm rather partial to my books and my drink as you yourself seem to be!"

"Me? You mean this?" Jon replied with a small smile, lifting the flask for him to see. "Just one of my Lady wife's fancies, my Lord. It's just boiled water. Now that she is with child, I don't wish to disturb her more."

A child then? Tyrion hoped that this one survived to be an adult. The Arryns had it rough and he sympathized with them. "Water?"

"Edmure has been very concerned for… Lysa has always been a delicate woman, my Lord. Her brother was as worried for her as I myself. First, he brought maesters, then septons, then a woods witch, even a follower of the red God from Essos," He shook his head ruefully and chuckled. "Now we drink only boiled water, wash in boiled water. I had to quit wine on Lysa's insistence and eat only the freshest fruits and herbs and meat. One thing about these foreign gods though, they do help you see the bright side when it comes to the Seven."

The Seven. Tyrion had once put up with them, guessing that maybe if he learnt to live with the great jape they'd played upon him, they'd overlook his little ones upon them. And then they'd sent Tysha to torment him… "I believe we may have to thank Maegor for that rather than the Seven," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Perhaps, my Lord, perhaps," mused Lord Jon while observing him keenly. "Was that all you wished to ask?"

Tyrion collected himself. "My Lord, are the records of the Red Keep's dealings with the merchants to be found in the Library? Or are those to be under the sole purview of the Master of Coin?"

"Ordinarily, they are," said Jon Arryn carelessly, without any sign that Tyrion's sudden question had surprised him. "But since Maester Colemon and I have been handling those duties this past year, you'll find them in the Royal Library, cared for by the Grand Maester. Your desire is to view them?"

"If you has no objections. But I understand if the Crown has to keep its secrets."

Jon's face betrayed his amusement. "The effects and expenditure of the Crown are common knowledge to every wastrel in Flea Bottom. I don't see why the King's goodbrother can't satisfy his curiosity unless- you're not an old enemy of the new Master of Coin, are you, my Lord?"

"Never, my Lord Hand!" Tyrion rose to his jape gallantly. "My tiny body hides the largest heart you will find in the West!"

A dry chuckle answered him. "I'm sure Lord Baelish will be glad to make your acquaintance. Though I believe he might be too busy in his duties at first. I freely confess it will a huge relief when Lord Baelish arrives from Gulltown."

Baelish. Tyrion had been making inquiries about him- and turned up nothing. The few Gulltown merchants he'd been able to speak with in confidence told of a well-loved, cheerful man had served the City well and been liked by all. Though little more than a hedge knight, he'd fostered very well indeed- in Riverrun itself. The reasons for his leaving were confused though- but in the shadow of Robert's rebellion, he wouldn't have been the only man to seek new horizons by himself. There were the usual wild rumours about him being one of Lord Hoster's bastards and being a Targaryen Loyalist and being the secret lover of the Tully sisters and a hidden Blackfyre and being in league with grumpkins and the Others for all Tyrion knew- yet another reason to distrust everything he heard in the wretched City.

"Looks like the Small Council is finally complete, my Lord," Tyrion congratulated him.

"My thanks, Lord Tyrion- but until Lord Baelish arrives in the City, my troubles will have no end," replied Jon Arryn. "Apologies, my Lord, but I must leave you for now. If you do have to know about anything, I have no reservations if the Grand Maester would oblige you. He knows as much of the import of these matters of the Realm as I do myself."

"My gratitude to you as well, Lord Hand," Tyrion bowed again deeply as the Hand smiled back and went about his way. _He's either the most honourable of men or the most consummate of liars_ , thought Tyrion as he made his way to Pycelle's chambers. But maybe Jon Arryn didn't need finesse, did he? Most of his household remained near the Tower of the Hand at all times and Brynden Tully held almost all the military might of the City now. _If tomorrow, the Hand loses his mind and decides to destroy Sunspear, our noble King will fall over himself getting there with his warhammer. Thank the gods he was loyal to Robert, if not the Realm…_

Pycelle though was a very different beast. He reeked of disloyalty. He slept with whores, sometimes two at a time- though that in itself meant nothing. He'd often be seen at the Rookery after a Small council meeting- though that it in itself meant nothing. But Tyrion doubted that the omniscience people associated with Tywin Lannister was because of the efforts of Barristan Selmy and Brynden Tully or the chaotic mystery around the Spider. He had no proof yet- but something within Tyrion told him he'd finally discovered his father's agent in the Red Keep.

 _And now for my dear sister's_ … _Unless Pycelle served her as well?_ Or maybe the former were also at Tumbleton awaiting reinforcements. And Tyrion's heart sank once again as he thought of his trapped kin.

Pycelle was in the Library when Tyrion found him, the two dozen heavy chains he wore tinkling like little bells as he pottered about with books and scrolls. He was a doddering old man, almost as old as Jon Arryn himself and his back was bowed with age and rheumatism. A luxuriant beard covered his chin, and most part of his ermine-covered chest; Pycelle was proud of it and Tyrion had often seen him running his fingers through it while in deep thought.

"Greetings, my Lord Tyrion!" Pycelle mumbled cheerfully as he saw him approach. "Words cannot convey my grief when I heard the news of the unpleasantness at Tumbleton. How I pray for your sweet sister, Our Grace, and valiant Ser Jaime."

"My thanks, Grand Maester," Tyrion smiled as they shook hands. "It is gratifying to find that House Lannister has no lack of friends at this most precipitous of times."

"No, no, my Lord, I only wish I could be of more use." Pycelle spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. "I can only hope for Ser Brynden and our Lord Hand to secure these lands and ferret out the malcontents at the soonest. But your presence has been providential, my Lord! What a comfort I'm sure you'll be to our Grace when she returns!"

 _No, I'm a bit too tall for her. She'd like me better if I was just a head_ …"

"Grand Maester, my studies at Casterly Rock were sadly interrupted when I came east," lied Tyrion as he clambered onto a nearby chair. "Especially the study of the nature of trade and coin. While I already possess a copy of Maester Adam's seminal works, I was hoping I may have the opportunity to study from a more recent source."

Pycelle took a chair himself and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The works of Maester Jon have been admired by some but I myself fear they are for a more extravagant class. Not prudent, not prudent at all!"

The chains he wore tinkled again, and soft flashes of gold and silver, gemstones and platinum glimmered when they caught the light _. He wears a king's ransom on his chest_ , thought Tyrion. _Maester Jon could probably fund his ideas for a dozen years on them alone_. "Interesting. Grand Maester, would it be too presumptive of me to study the Crown's dealings these past few years? See how reality matches up to the thinking of the old Maesters? The Lord Hand saw little trouble with my studies if you agreed to them."

"But of course, my Lord!" Pycelle smiled like an old man talking with his favourite grandson. "I will only be delighted to help Lord Tywin's son and Her Grace's own brother! My duties have been slight since Lord… a sad tale, but he was three and seventy. Lady Cersei mostly teaches our young Prince herself; unadvisable if I may say so- but a mother's heart sometimes will not hear reason. Come, my Lord. The records are in this corner of the Hall…"

 _Gods help that poor boy if Cersei is teaching him_ , thought Tyrion as he got up to follow Pycelle through the maze of shelves and drawers that filled the great Hall of the Royal Library. As he passed the chair Pycelle had been sitting on, he ran his bindings of the books on one of the shelves behind it. Two were slightly out of place, and had very little dust on them.

 _Poligraphia by Maester Trithemus and Ink of the Night by Qalqashandi…_

"In many ways, the Essosi are far ahead of us in such monetary matters," wheezed Pycelle as he pulled out stack after stack of musty paper out of a drawer. "Unorganized their learning may be and secretive their methods, but it is known that some of the great Merchant-Houses in the Free Cities produce talents only inferior to the Citadel itself. And then there are the amusing tales of the fabled east to whose cities, King's Landing is little more than a village." He chuckled in clear disbelief and the chains on his chest tinkled like little bells.

"But didn't Lomas Longstrider see the Three Walls of the Qarth, one of the wonders of the World? And the Tower Cities of Yi Ti, each built on the ruins of ten others?" Tyrion demanded. The works of Longstrider had been his favourite in his boyhood; long hours he'd spent with them walking alongside the long-dead scribe in the halls inside his mind- marvelling at the Titan of Braavos, walking through the remnant fortress-cities of the Patrimony, marvelling at the Palace of a Thousand Rooms in now-lost Sarnath. _In Uruk he built walls, a great rampart, and the temple of blessed Eanna for the god of the firmament Anu, and for Ishtar the goddess of love. Look at it still today: the outer wall where the cornice runs, it shines with the brilliance of copper; and the inner wall, it has no equal…_ he remembered reciting long ago at a dinner with the family during happier times.

"Some of them are true, my Lord. But we can hardly expect Lomas Longstrider to have been an example of virtue," coughed Pycelle as he sat gently on a chair, took one of the records upon his knee and cracked it open. "These are for four months' past, I see. The payments from the Harbourmaster, the Tax farmers, the Customs officers, wool collectors, toll collectors… There must be over four thousand establishments, my Lord. Weeks of work…"

"And Jon Arryn has been handling all this along with his duties as Hand?" exclaimed Tyrion to which the Grand Maester gravely nodded. _Incredible! Perhaps they finally had a Hand who could be a match for the golden years under Tywin Lannister_.

Tyrion spent the rest of the evening in his rooms, ensconced with the books for the past two years. He came out neither for evening dinner nor for supper- save for two minutes when he poked his head out of the door and asked Daft Tim to fetch some bread and cold chicken for him, if the man would be so good. He had rejected Pycelle's offer of help. While Tyrion had thought of a crude insurance for Varys; he had none for Pycelle- even though he doubted Pycelle would've harmed a son of Lord Tywin at all. Besides, Tyrion admitted to himself, a month of doing nothing but enjoying whores and wine were dulling his mind.

It were the wines he first took note of. Shortly after 289 AC had begun, the Crown had started paying for its Volantene wines in Volantene honors. This was good for the Crown; they avoided dealing with the middlemen who handled the trade between the Red Keep and the traders- and it was better for the traders as well. But the honors- they were the interesting link. It was this point that Tyrion realized that for all his perceived mastery of trade, Pycelle simply never had bothered to go through these documents.

Lord Edmure Tully was the one responsible for selling honors to the Iron Throne; where he got them though was anybody's guess. He was paid for them by one of the three mints in the City, along with a cut from the seigniorage which, no doubt, he was abusing to the fullest. Arryn maintained an iron hand on the amount of dragons minted across all three mints but Tyrion knew how little it took to bribe the average King's Landing official, especially if it was to shirk off work and let the third mint do the lion's share. Further, Lord Edmure had argued that since the properties he had been rented were outside the City and he already was paying a tax for developing the waterfront, it made little sense for him to be taxed by the Keeper of the Keys or the Harbourmaster for moving his goods.

And Jon Arryn had accepted that as well, provided Edmure give the Iron Throne a cheaper price on the luxury goods he'd been moving. There were a series of communications between Lord Jon, Lord Edmure, and in some case, a letter stamped with the initials AP and a blue flower seal. The Hand's primary argument was that Lord Edmure had been stock-piling silks and spices since spring- and so there was no reason to charge such high prices. The mysterious AP had been countering that Lord Edmure ought to sell them the luxuries instead, in return for which they proposed greater collaboration with the Iron Throne. In one of the letters, he found an offer by Lord Edmure to Jon Arryn offering to ' _print over a thousand copies of the Seven Pointed Star, each inscribed with the name of King Robert, and to be given to Tourney guests instead of the customary gifts'_ \- for which the Riverlord had demanded a cut of the costs saved. Lord Jon had been ambivalent- but he'd agreed to look into the matter once the year was over.

And it went on and on. Almost all the grain for the Red Keep now came down the Maidenpool road. Living cattle were to be delivered to them from as far away as Seagard. Cheap linen and expensive Silk now both came from the young Riverlord- save only for the good Pentoshi cotton. Lord Edmure had also offered to sell paper in vast quantities as well, ' _slightly worse in quality than the ones made of hand by Pycelle's girls_ '- one document described- ' _but five times as cheap'_. In return for his magnanimity, Lord Edmure had just demanded the spoiled and lesser vintages in the Red Keep.

Then came the Commissions. Lord Edmure asking permission to replace an empty customs seat with his own man- one who could speak Volantene like a native. A request for permission to declare a King's Specie holder- at a position only below the King's Scales and the King's Justice. _And with a third of the mints of Westeros under him and control over most of the honors in this city, it will be a miracle if it wasn't he who got the position_. An offer to create the first _Royal Cartographic Society_ \- whatever the Hell that was- that Edmure wished to discuss in person with the King himself.

To Jon Arryn's credit, he hadn't keeled over to any of Lord Edmure's proposals- or hadn't as far Tyrion had heard of; it was the first time he was learning of such plans and the Red Keep seemed to have benefitted from the association. But then again- there were more Tullys in the Arryn Household than in Riverrun itself. And when this Baelish finally arrived in King's Landing, the Tully-Arryn faction would control a full half of the Small Council- and gods only knew what Varys meant by the Hand paying no attention to rumours and dragons…Tyrion doubted that Arryn would act against Robert under any circumstances- but the old Lord had little love for Lannisters and Brynden Tully had even less.

"What would father have done if he were here?" Tyrion said aloud.

He knew. The Family _. Always the Family._


	23. The Lords of Westeros

JAIME

291 AC

There was one Crown and one Throne for all the Seven Kingdoms- and one King to rule over them all, assisted by seven able counsellors.

Or as it was in Robert's case- one king to drink and dine and whore himself into an early grave as his seven pet nincompoops schemed and squabbled and gambled the Seven Kingdoms into ruin and deprivation. They were the lords of Small matters- as Renly was often wont to say- and no honest man would ever accuse them of rising to great occasions. In every aspect, they remained mediocre and wanting and whenever Jaime found Ser Barristan's accusatory self-righteous eye sweeping over his king-slaying self, there were few things that could console him better than the knowledge that at least, he didn't have to be part of the biggest bunch of losers there was in the entire Realm.

Which was why it was both a surprise as well as shock to find himself being summoned into the Council chamber one fine day.

"It's probably to introduce to the new Master of Coin," opined Tyrion from where he sat in the corner, telling Jaime the latest news & scandals of King's Landing. The sharper of the Lannister boys had managed to ingratiate himself into the City within a few short weeks of arriving, lulling most in complacence using his diminutive looks and charming the rest with his erudition- finally ending up with most of the secrets of the Crownland's nobility in his little pocket book. His contacts among the City's brothels had paid off as well- as a result of which Robert had warmed up to Tyrion within the span of a single week. Till that, his little brother remained the only Lannister Jaime knew of who Robert didn't want to smash with his hammer which the two brothers supposed could only be a good thing.

Cersei hadn't been of the same mind and that had been a cause of the most recent spat between her and Jaime. His lover had occupied herself with the organizing of her snot-nosed Joffrey's approaching nameday- in Jaime's opinion, just another wasteful extravagance all of they could do without. Robert took little notice of expenses- but both Tyron and Jon Arryn took a dim view of Cersei's expenses. It was doubtful the new Master of Coin would be any more amused at the situation.

"Unless he shits gold, our new friend will be hard-pressed to find the coin for all the expenses. Unfortunately for him, I'm not my father" Jaime laughed as he wore his gauntlets and gathered up his sword.

Tyrion laughed at his words. "I would disagree. If they want a Lannister to shit enough gold for the Crown's expense, they'll have to wait until one of us marries a giantess."

"It'll not be me, brother. Guess you'll have to take one for the team."

"All women look the same in the dark," Tyrion shrugged. "And I'll keep ropes and climbing boots handy to climb atop her at night!"

Jaime couldn't manage to get the disgusting yet hilarious image out of his mind by the time he reached the Council chambers but he did manage to get his laughter under control. Which was fortunate because the knights guarding the chamber were Moore and Ser Barristan himself- not the two most given to frivolity. Moore stared at him suspicious and silent as ever. Ser Barristan greeted him.

"Ser Jaime, good to see you! The Council has been expecting you." He reached for the door behind and cracked it open.

A drunken bellow sounded then, a bellow that brought to mind a rather filthy boar rather than a human being. Underneath were a simmering rage-filled iron tone, a silky lilting voice that would've suited a little boy, a whimpering series of grunts from an elderly throat- and above them all, the stentorian, cold voice of reason all in Westeros knew to be the voice of Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Ruler of Westeros in all but name.

Jaime entered to find the Small Council in its characteristic chaos- but with two notable differences from the norm. The first was the presence of King Robert at the head of the table, a massive goblet and decanter of Selhorys Green in front of him. The second was a small, mousy man sitting quietly at the far end of the table- presumably the same Lord Baelish Jaime had been hearing about. _Even if he were a Lannister, he'd have to shit for a long, long time to deal with the current expenses_ , Jaime thought.

Stannis was grinding his teeth as always. "…unrest will become a concern for us in the future."

"Sucks to be him. That's between the man and his liege lord, not for us to bother." roared Robert as he took another swig from his goblet, spilling half of it over himself. He burped loudly and contently after finishing it. "Bloody good wine. Tastes fairly new though."

"My goodbrother buys back any of our older vintages for half the price," Jon explained.

"Does he?" broke in Stannis "What does he gain from it? Why buy old wine back?"

"Most of the wine we buy is from his own cellars," said Jon. "And I believe he's doing something with the old stocks."

"That is evident," snorted Stannis before he caught sight of the two Kingsguard. "Lord Commander!" He greeted them, getting up from his seat- to honour Ser Barristan, Jaime guessed. He doubted the impeccable Stannis would ever honour the King-slayer unless it was the honour of cutting off his neck for dereliction of duty.

"Your Grace. Prince Stannis," nodded Ser Barristan in reply before taking his seat at the table by the new Master of Coin. He looked as unsure of himself as the latter- and why not? It was no secret that the Lord Commander, a legacy of Aerys' Kingsguard, preferred to stay away from the Small Council meetings. His presence there- and the fact that all seats were finally full- was an indication that things might not be the same they'd been for all these years…

Jaime blinked. He was wrong; not all seats were full. He glanced around and found a powerfully built man in a dark cloak carelessly lounging near the windows in the far end, staring out at the evening sky outside.

Ser Brynden seemed to sense Jaime's eyes on him for the next moment, he'd turned to face the Lannister. Even in Council, he wore mail and sword- bad form but it was doubtful he cared much for protocol.

Stannis spoke up, "Now that Ser Jaime is here, we might get another perspective on things."

"What perspective! We march north and smash any Wildling we find!" Robert snarled drunkenly.

Jon Arryn coughed. "That might be difficult since Ned wrote to say that he had already crushed… Lord Commander, Ser Jaime, my apologies if you haven't the news already."

"There's nothing to apologize for, my Lord Hand," said the old knight. "But a brief purview if it is possible would be appreciated."

"Nothing much to it," grunted Ser Brynden, stomping up to the table with an angry tread. "There were ravens. A new Wildling host was being raised beyond the Wall. Stark marched there and broke them like his ancestors have done all these millennia. Much ado about nothing."

"Or would've been if not for the Slaver ship he captured as well," said Lord Varys silkily- drawing a look of derision from the Blackfish. Tyrion had told Jaime of the antipathy the Tully knight bore for the eunuch. "When Lord Stark defeated the raiders, he also recovered the ruins of a Slaver ship from Myr. The Wildlings had managed to get it to run around during low tide and killed all the slavers. In addition, the Manderlys also came across roving fleets of Slavers and pirates. They defeated and scattered them but were unable to take prisoners."

Pycelle coughed gently, "Lord Stark also writes that he has taken over ten thousand Wildlings prisoner- mostly women and children. A thousand youths as well. They are leaderless, almost feral- and while Lord Stark has sated his vassals' thirst for revenge by executing their leaders and captains, he doubts he'll be able to settle the prisoners in the north without bloodshed. Anyhow, what we wanted to discuss, Ser Jaime, was that…"

Stannis broke in bitterly, "They are all traitors. Stark should've had them all executed. He is too soft to rule."

"And you're a blithering blabbermouth," came a drunken roar from Robert, so loud that Lord Baelish nearly leapt from his chair in fright. "What have you done in your life, boy? All that ado about pirates! Well- why are there so many pirates now then? What were you even doing on your little pleasure trip with the Fleet?"

"You Grace, my birds tell me these pirates are quite different from the ones Lord Stannis broke in the Stepstones last year."

"Where were your birds when these savages were attacking the North, you fat slob?" slurred Robert, his eyes glazed.

"I apologize, Your Grace. But the cold is no ally of mine."

"Fat foreign fish-man," Robert spat. "As useless as nipples on a breast-plate! What other news do you have, eh? Speak up!"

"Your Grace," tittered Varys as he edged a look at the Blackfish- who instantly turned upon him, a dark look on his features. "I had hoped for some privacy…"

"You'll speak or I'll bite off your head this minute," came another drunken roar, making Lord Baelish jump again.

Varys gulped. "My birds speak of young Lord Edmure making a new weapon. He has spent vast sums of money on it and is fortifying his warehouses as well. My birds haven't succeeded in ferreting out his plans yet but it won't be long before he has a stout fortress of his own within the very shadow of the Red Keep itself."

Ser Brynden said softly, "Lord Varys, are you accusing my nephew of treason? If so, name your champion. After I've killed him, I'll have your head as well for the filthy lies you peddle."

Just another fruitful day in the Small Council, Jaime thought. Threats and accusations and calls for duels while the King tried to drown himself in a tumbler of wine. Stannis seemed to cheer up instantly as Brynden's words and Jaime suspected most of the Council wouldn't have minded seeing a duel between the Spider and the Blackfish as well. Jaime wondered what fool would be stupid enough to fight a duel on behalf of Varys. Even Lord Baelish was grinning from ear to ear- but then again, what else could one expect from some Arryn lackey?

It was Jon Arryn himself who spoiled the fun. "The warehouses still belong to me. I doubt this is an affair to concern the Council with."

"Apologies, my Lord Hand. But there are more foreign goods in the City than ever as well. Most of which come through Lord Edmure's docks. I fear shadier things creep ashore with them."

"I'm more concerned about the golden things creeping out to sea," grunted Lord Arryn impatiently. "Lord Baelish, have you taken a look over our finances yet?"

The mousy man nodded with a smile and started, "I would first like to express my gratitude to you all, my Lords, and especially to you, my Lord Hand. I had hardly expected…"

"Get on with it!" came a snarl from Stannis.

Baelish gulped uneasily. "The incomes are more than ever, my Lords- but the expenses have crept higher each year as well. We were hard-pressed during the War as well though the recent growth of industry by Lord Edmure had helped matters."

"The monopoly he possess is worrying though," said Maester Pycelle, stroking his beard gently. "Your Grace, my Lords, we all know how important it is not to grow over dependent on a single source of goodwill. No matter how good-natured it is to our state," he rapidly spoke as he saw the darkening look on the Blackfish's face. "We get grain, meat, even cloth and wine from the Riverlands- but what if the gods are capricious? What if there are floods on the Red Fork or drought up the Green?

Varys tittered in as well, "It is not healthy for the Crown to grow too partisan to a single Kingdom as well."

"It is for this reason, Ser Jaime that I thought of ensuring that such largesse is distributed evenly," said Baelish. "Recently the Lord Hand managed to obtain certain trade privileges from Lord Edmure in exchange for control over certain positions in the harbours and mints…"

"Selling public office for profit. How quaint!" muttered Stannis darkly.

"…and thus," continued Baelish, "I have devised a system where upon essential offices can be maintained by some of the most noble Houses of the land. There's the Grand Panetier, the Grand Vintner, the Master of Ceremonies, the Master Huntsman- all to be held by distinguished men of business…"

"Sold off to fat merchant-thugs," muttered Stannis.

"…as well as the Lordly Offices- the Master Engineer of Roads, Lord Chancellor for the Crownlands, and the Master of Foreign Affairs."

Jon Arryn spoke up before Stannis could make another remark. "I've gone over the proposals with Maester Pycelle and Ser Brynden. The responsibilities have been designed as not to infringe upon those of the Small Council. Maybe some of my own but I consider that little loss."

"The position of the Grand Panetier alone will go a long way in solving the peasants' problems in the Reach as well. Lord Tyrell will subsidize some of the costs. This, combined with the prices the Crown pays will satisfy the rioters in the Reach and reduce our dependence on the Riverlands for grain, if not meat and drink."

"What the Lord Hand & the Spider mean to say is that they've sold the position to Tyrell already," broke in Stannis, uncaring of the hurt looks thrown at him by most of the Council. Robert, however, was already slumped over his chair with a dazed look in his eyes. No one bothered. "His goodbrother is Royal Vintner- or whatever he's calling it- already for all practical purposes. The question is, Ser Jaime, what positions are the Lannisters willing to buy?"

Jaime stuttered, "I gave my titles when I took the White Cloak, Lord Stannis. I can hardly…"

"It's either you or the imp," came a slurred voice from Robert's chair. "And that father of yours hates the Imp."

"Please write to Lord Tywin regarding this, Ser Jaime," ordered Jon Arryn. "And suggest suitable men of honour for the posts. I will do so myself."

"Renly holds the Crownlands thing," snarled Stannis harshly, looking at Jaime pointedly, "I won't have any golden-haired Lannister in control of the Crownlands' finances."

Jaime remained calm from the outside but his fingers started aching. Stannis was nearly of the same age as him- but he was already balding and growing slow. And once Jaime started moving, there would nothing, nothing to stop him from crushing that miserable…

A black steel gauntlet started drumming on the table. Ser Brynden said quietly, "I agree with Lord Stannis. Lord Renly is of age now and he's the King's brother as well. A position under the Crown will do him good."

Pycelle nodded his grey head and said avuncularly, "A just decision, good Ser. Ser Kevan would've been best but I am aware of the duties he has in the West. I myself would suggest Ser Stafford for Master Huntsman and Ser Gerion for Master of Foreign…"

"Uncle Gerion left on his voyage not two weeks ago," replied Jaime, still trying to get his head around Baelish's words.

"A daring voyage to Valyria itself! A search for a mystical sword! A quest worthy of a song!" Varys clapped his hands much to Jaime's amusement but no one else took any notice.

"I'm sure Ser Jaime can handle this in due time, Grand Maester," smiled Baelish. "I'm sure even the most generous terms would've a good response."

"How much gold do we lose every year, Lord Baelish?" asked Ser Brynden suddenly.

"Probably ten thousand dragons each month," said Jon Arryn ruefully, drawing gasps from all around- though Robert merely gave a soft snore from where he dozed on his chair. Most of the Council seemed to have forgotten him already- apart from Ser Barristan who sat on his seat like a statue. This Jaime thought- until he turned his head and his eyes met Varys'.

"The coming nameday celebrations will cost us another thirty thousand at the least," put in Baelish. "We're borrowing from the Faith at present. If Lord Tywin gives us fair terms, we might save hundreds of thousands in interest- especially when combined with the changes I propose in the coinage."

"What changes?" demanded Stannis.

Baelish merely smiled. "Technicalities that would be little interest to the Council, my Lord. I will have my books delivered to you later if you're so minded."

"Every penny we lose is a penny the Fleet won't have to fight these pirates."

Jon Arryn shook his head gravely, "You misunderstand, Lord Stannis. The Crown is in no longer in shape for any military adventures. We will have to depend more and more on our Lords Paramount from now on." He shot a look at the sleeping Robert. "It is for this reason I've been giving everyone such a long leash these days."

"Essential as well, my Lord Hand," tittered Varys. "With the recent aggression of Tyrosh towards Myr, such gratuitous policies would be essential."

"And what about the Myrish slavers the Northmen have been fighting?" demanded Stannis, grinding his teeth in rage. "We let them go scot-free?"

"We can hardly attack Myr and achieve victory in open battle, my Lord Stannis," was Varys' reply.

"And even if we could, we don't have the coin for such a campaign," pointed out Baelish. He nodded at Pycelle. "I suppose the Master of Foreign Affairs would've to handle that once he's appointed. If the Wildlings had any wealth to speak of, I'd have advised an attack beyond the Wall to gather some wealth but I guess all we'll get there are ice and grumpkins."

"Speaking of Wildlings, I don't suppose Lord Tywin would agree to take Lord Stark's prisoners in, would they?" mused Pycelle.

Jaime laughed. "Ten thousand savages? I don't think so."

"I wish we could've dumped them onto Dorne or the Reach," grumbled Ser Brynden. "But I fail to imagine any Kingdom would suffer ten thousand mouths gladly. There's land aplenty in the Stormlands and the Crownlands but without a standing guard, it'll be risky. And then they're not even of the Faith! I wouldn't want young Renly to start out with this headache as well."

"Neither would I," supported Stannis. "Jon, if we're already selling public offices why not sell off this responsibility as well? They can send a herald to the Red Keep if they take in a thousand Wildlings. A squire for three."

Everyone nodded gravely but there was a look of utmost shock on Jon Arryn's face. "Separate mothers from their children and brothers from sisters? My Lord, this cannot be!" He snarled, losing his composure for the first time during the Council.

Stannis looked abashed and owed his head meekly. Ser Brynden and Pycelle had pensive looks on their faces which they lowered the instant Jon looked at them. "They are only Wildlings from beyond the Wall, my Lord Hand," Varys tried to console the Hand.

"They are now men of the Realm," said Jon in a voice like steel. "Ned accepted them as such. And as long as I am Hand over the Seven Kingdoms, no injustice will ever be done to the people of this Realm!"

Ser Barristan spoke up for the first time. "The Lord Hand speaks the truth. They were ten thousand savages. They are now ten thousand leaderless, helpless, meek souls- most of them women and children as has been said already. And it is the duty of all true knights to protect the helpless and women and children."

Ser Brynden stood up and glanced around the chamber. "I'm the only knight here without any responsibilities to anyone. I suppose my Lord Father would've wanted me to hold lands but for now, I'll be at the mercy of my Lord Brother and he'd rather throw me into his dungeons than raise Keeps for me. Nevertheless… I can but try."

The meeting fizzled out soon after. Jon Arryn moved away into his Office, followed closely by Baelish and Brynden. Varys was sent packing by Stannis with orders to find out more about Edmure's weapon- after the three were safely out of sight and Pycelle himself hurried off to tend to his Ravens while Ser Barristan busied himself with the King. Jaime figured he'd ought to start on his letter to his father as well. Tyrion would be best; he was by far the smartest in their family and Jaime supposed Daven would fit in well if not for his young age…

He found Tyrion leaning on a pillar just outside his rooms, with quill and paper stuffed in his pockets. "Tyrion? What are you up to?"

"Hedging my bets, big brother. Hedging my bets," Tyrion remarked with a grin on his face. "What do you think of our new Master of Coin and his policies?"

Suddenly, Jaime realized the truth. "Why, you sly old devil!" he laughed. "Baelish hasn't even been in the City for two days!"

"But he was at sea for a week," Tyrion grinned, his eyes glimmering with joyous malice. "And a week is too long to live without warm red-headed whores to give one company. I introduced him to some of the brothel madams I knew- and he was only too glad to give a helpful ear to my requests. And now, brother, would you mind reading this letter I've written for you to send to father?"

"Why? Who're you recommending for the posts?" asked Jaime as he took the letter.

"I'm going for the foreign post. And while I did think of putting Daven in, this City is no place for a boy barely more than a child. Guess uncle Stafford would have to manage."

Jaime nodded as he rapidly scanned through the letter and then put it in his pocket. "I didn't know you were taking such a keen interest in the slavers."

"Slavers?" exclaimed Tyrion. "What slavers?" They stared at each other in silence for some time before Tyrion shook his head slowly and spoke again, "I guess it's time we've had a talk on what's been going on, Jaime. Maybe you can help me out here. I don't really understand what's going on- but something's really rotten in the lands beyond the Narrow Sea. And I don't fancy rot in my Westerosi wine."


	24. North Wind

TIRO

291 AC

"There's a north wind coming," said Lord Edmure, his hands behind his back clutching the latest letter from the Riverlands, as he stared out of the window to where the workmen were putting the finishing touches on the new wooden berths. A massive Serenate Galley was docked there- a vast triple decker with a full hundred rowers on each deck- festooned with dozens of brightly coloured streamers and flags. Not an hour ago, the stevedores and sailors had finished unloading its cargo of perfumes and scented oils before starting to load it with the newest product from Lord Edmure's warehouses- printed material for advertising, flyers with images of dragons and wine and girls meant to sell everything from amphorae to ships.

Ser Willem stroked his stubble and made a face. "I won't say so, Lord. It's pretty balmy in my opinion."

"I wasn't talking about the weather," said Lord Edmure as he turned and slouched his way to his chair into which he dropped like a sack of potatoes. "Though I must say if this is what hurricane weather is, I'd rather prefer not to know what real summer looks like."

"You'll get your wish soon enough, my Lord," remarked Tiro from where he was sitting in a corner desk, fanning himself with a stack of papers. "Hurricane season only lasts the first third of summer. Hopefully it'll be over in ten months or so."

"Ten months?" groaned Lord Edmure loudly, rolling the letter into a ball and flinging it into a wastebasket nearby. "Westeros is a nightmare!"

"I know that one!" exclaimed Ser Willem. "That's what the Black Goat of Qohor teaches us."

"Cool it, fanatic!" scowled Lord Edmure. "By the way, I forgot to ask. Did the Order send the men to guard your migrants?"

"Aye, six Ryger men," replied Willem in the affirmative. "Ser Brynden has the Goldcloaks out in force as well but there are still roving bands of ruffians and rioters all over the right bank of the Rush. It's a nightmare, my Lord. There have been lynchings as far apart as the Antlers and Tumbleton, Tiro, and there were rumours that a new Brotherhood has risen, this time along the Gold Road as well."

"That shouldn't be a concern, Ser," put in Tiro. "Ser Yohn & Ser Treppindale have already commissioned the first two centuries of Riversguard at Maidenpool. Once we have the companies from Pinkmaiden, Seagard, and Atranta, we can start training them at Riverrun itself. Clearing the Gold Road would be easy then." Raising the Riversguard had been a fixation for both Lord Edmure and Ser Willem for ages- which was why Tiro had found it surprising that they hadn't visited the Riverlands yet even after the news that the Order had finally started to assemble the army.

The Riversguard was, to hear Lord Edmure speak, unlike any force ever raised in Westeros yet. It was supposed to be a standing army- much like the one the Lannisters maintained at Casterly Rock- and yet it was to be sworn not to Riverrun itself, but the Riverlands & the Company itself- or at least the ones who controlled the Company. Based at river ports near Pinkmaiden, Riverrun, Maidenpool, Fairmarket- and Riverstadt itself, they were supposed to strike out throughout the Riverlands with their longships and River Galleys. They had only their arms and armour at present but Lord Edmure had been of the opinion that giving any of them horses- apart from the scouts- would make them a challenge to the authority of the knightly houses. In battle, the Riversguard would be an ideal foil for the mounted Riverknights & their professional infantry, and in times of peace, a leash on their excesses.

And to hear lord Edmure speak, once the new weapon- now being forged by Salloreon and Heron at the Street of Steel- was completed, the very nature of War would change.

"Partly," remarked the man himself, stretching his limbs "The rioting is over the fall in grain prices thanks to Riverlands grain. Once the prices go up, the riots will subdue."

"Unless the Lords lose their minds and act like Maegor," grumbled Ser Willem. "The Kingswood Brotherhood was a nightmare, Lord. We can't have knock-offs running around on our Southern borders."

"On the contrary, my friend," smiled Lord Edmure, "They're going to serve our purposes ably. I think I already have an idea of how to deal with them."

A tumult rang out in the courtyard below and soon they heard Daeron calling for them. Lord Edmure sauntered over to the window, upon which he seemed to lose his easy manner in an instant. "It's the Blackfish," he shot back as he rushed out of the door. It was indeed surprising; the Blackfish had little love for his nephew's mercantile actions and rarely visited the Warehouses himself. "It's probably some emergency! Bring arms!"

So fast he was that by the time Ser Willem and Tiro finally reached the courtyard, clad now in their mail shirts and carrying guild-forged steel longswords, Ser Brynden was already afoot and conversing with Lord Edmure in the shade of the awning on the ground floor. No less than ten Goldcloaks stood by as well, their eyes darting from one end of the warehouses to the other and their hands on the hilts of their blades. Dareon stood close by with seven of their own guards as well, each carrying a fine guild-forged halberd and, from the prickling at the back of his neck, Tiro guessed the four hunters they'd hired to staff the two watchtowers they'd been putting up were ready with their bows as well. He edged a glance at the windows towards the right of the complex- and spotted Lyseni crossbows being withdrawn and the shutters closing softly.

Lord Edmure caught sight of them and called out, "Nothing's the problem, you two. Stand down. You did give us quite a fright, uncle." He was sweating heavily as well, unarmoured but for a quilted cotton vest and his usual longsword and Valyrian hunting knife- not that Tiro expected it to be of much use. Lord Edmure had little skill in swordplay and would've been at bay with an opponent more skilled than the sundry bandit.

"Ser Brynden," Ser Willem went down on his knees and Tiro followed. There were few men in Westeros with an aura as commanding as that of the Blackfish, even dressed as simply as he was in simple black half-plate and faded Tully cloak. There were few knights in the Realm more skilled than him with a blade- and as a leader of men, he was said to the equal of Lord Tywin himself. Men half his age shied away from him during melees and those twice his age listened when he spoke. Within six months of taking office, he had turned the corrupt and rotten Goldcloaks into a force that could stand up to any army in the Seven Kingdoms.

The Blackfish took little notice of them apart from a perfunctory wave of his arm.

"As I was just saying, Edmure, your foreign friends were the first thing I thought of when I heard of slavers in the North. I've heard of Tyroshi cartels striking beyond the Wall during the heights of summer but so soon after spring? Never."

"These weren't Tyroshi, uncle," Lord Edmure explained. "You yourself said they were Myrish. And besides, Aenera is Lyseni. My Volantene clients don't even provision for such journeys as to go beyond the Wall!"

"And yet there were slavers beyond the Wall," Ser Brynden repeated grimly. "There must be a link. If the Small council wasn't filled with idiots, Stannis might've turned up here himself. I've warned you again and again not to get too involved with these foreigners."

"An occupational hazard, Ser," shrugged Lord Edmure. "But the courtyard is no place to discuss this." Here he slightly jerked his head to his left- and Ser Brynden's eyes lit up with wariness. "Come inside. Daeron, please handle the Goldcloaks. Willem?"

"I'll have the corridors and eaves swept."

Ser Brynden nodded in approval as he saw the officers at the Warehouse spring in action. "Good thinking, son," he said as they went up the stairs to their dining chambers, "The eunuch said he had none of his birds here. Of course. Can't trust a word of what that thing says but I suppose it might be true."

Lord Edmure turned, a smirk on his face, "You're leaking State secrets, uncle."

"Hell with Varys' secrets. The eunuch is no Westerosi anyway but a foreign spy come to plague our land. He'll probably send some of his creatures to spy on whatever weapon it is you're building."

"Don't worry, uncle. None of his birds are in this warehouse. I'm sure of it."

Ser Brynden stopped in his tracks, and put his hand on Lord Edmure's shoulder. Slowly he said, "You know what his birds are, don't you, son?"

Lord Edmure nodded grimly.

"I'd scarcely believed it myself when I learnt the truth," muttered the Blackfish. "If I had any real proof, I'd have taken action. Anyhow, for the sake of the State, one must forgive even great sins… Lead on…"

Tiro felt a pang of hurt in his chest at the words over Lord Varys. Was that all he was, a spy? The laws that governed the ancient art of Slavery were far more ancient than Westeros itself- and Aenera had taken full advantage of its technicalities. Tiro, for the sake of his honour, couldn't refuse most of her demands though he had been careful neither to let out any of the technical details of the Company or anything that might concern the Riverlands in general, and not merely Lord Edmure himself. Many a night, he'd prayed to the Smith, the god he identified with the most, for guidance- and yet every morning, he'd woken up without an answer. If he could, he'd have leaked Aenera's secrets- but whatever ones she may have had, she kept close to her chest. From what Tiro could make out, she was mostly concerned with the coming elections as well as yet another hair-brained Lyseni plan to attack the Disputed lands; The old Lizard Point plan had not been mentioned in months.

Tiro nearly jumped when he felt a hand land on his shoulder. Ser Willem looked down at him in puzzlement. "Stop blocking the door, friend. Get inside."

Lord Edmure and Ser Brynden were already seated at the table, deep in conversation and barely noticing the two. Tiro assumed that they'd probably thought him to be guarding the corridor until Willem could finish his checks. Once they were inside, the young knight latched and barred the door before drawing a chair and sitting down himself. Ser Brynden acknowledged him with a nod before continuing with his talk. "As I was saying, Ryswell & Karstark aren't agreeing to settle these savages in their lands. During the discussion, I happened to remember Ser Willem's men and the column of smallfolk they're leading up the Kingsroad, and managed to put things so that you'll find it easy to demand concessions of Jon if you find some use for ten thousand savages."

"Ten thousand Wildlings," muttered Lord Edmure as he drummed his fingers on the table. "It'll take years and dozens of guards to keep them in line."

"Most of them will be women and children. I suppose less than three thousand would be of age."

"I have little complaints myself but Wildling women are not what the Faith would approve of," was Lord Edmure's reply, "And I'm having enough troubles with Oldtown as such. If I settle ten thousand Wildlings in Riverstadt, not only will I be pissing off the Septons, I'll also risk the wrath of some of our Lords."

"And thus, these savages will know that they have no friends in the Riverlands but us and possibly the cranks at Raventree. There will two thousand of the boys coming of age within five years, Edmure. Twice that number in ten and all of them would be better fighters than our smallfolk! I haven't replied to Hoster's raven yet but I doubt even he would refuse such an offer."

Lord Edmure held up his hand. "He sent you a raven as well? The north wind one?"

Ser Brynden nodded briefly before sweeping his steely eyes over the two outsiders in the room with them.

"They're trustworthy, uncle," Lord Edmure answered the unspoken question. "But if my Lord Father does wish to go ahead with that insane plan, he must realize things might come to head before his great heathen army comes of age."

"Only Hoster knows what he wants. But this is an opportune time for such a scheme. The fortunes of House Tully are in ascendance. Not only is the Hand our ally, Petyr and I are on the Small Council. Jon will be handing over the position of Royal Vintner and Engineer to our faction as well. The Reach is divided. Renly is a young fool and Stannis unloved. All the Lannisters have at Court are an honourless cretin and a perverted imp."

"And Robert?"

"Forget him. He's nothing but a drunk."

"You're forgetting three of the other Kingdoms, uncle," warned Lord Edmure. "This is a stupid plan- not only because of the warfare it will entail but because it might ruin everything I've been working for in the Riverlands as well as our relations with Winterfell!"

"Relations with Winterfell!" spat Ser Brynden in sudden fury, his face as dark as his moniker. "That dour-faced man keeps his bastard under the same roof as your sister and nephew! A bastard the same age as Robb himself! Relations? What relations? No, lad. We stand alone. As always, we stand alone." He paused for breath, looking at the three of them with angry eyes before starting again. "The gods have been good to us. Cat hasn't lost a single child yet and she's given us and the North four heirs already. But the bastard is still young. What when he grows up and demands his pound of flesh? Cat herself writes he looks more like a Stark than any of hers apart from Arya!"

"I don't think Jon is that sort, uncle," muttered Lord Edmure under his breath.

"As if you know him in person!" snorted the Blackfish, thumping his fist on the table. "North Wind will ensure that we have our own northern lords in case the bastard gets any ideas."

"Really?" came a reply in a mocking tone. "And how many Riverknights will Hoster and you be sacrificing for this madness? Here am I, trying to build up the Riverlands into a prosperous, populous…"

"The last War nearly tore the Riverlands apart!" Ser Brynden insisted through hissed teeth. "This will not happen again if we can help it."

"My Company…"

Footsteps sounded outside their door and the two fell silent. Ser Willem got up from his chair. "That's Rodrik's tread. I recognize it," he said as he opened the door to one of their Maidenpool hires. The man bowed them before handing over a small letter before hastily leaving. Ser Willem passed it on to Tiro who handed it over to Lord Edmure.

"What does it say?" demanded the Blackfish as Lord Edmure opened it and read the contents with pursed lips.

"You didn't tell me Baelish has been talking about making changes in the coinage," replied Lord Edmure, affixing his uncle with a stare much like the latter's.

"Those are State secrets. Besides, Baelish is an ally. His affairs are not of our concern."

Lord Edmure held out the paper for Tiro to read. "Even the smallest matters discussed in the Small Council are our concern. Read this, Tiro. Remember our talks all those months ago about debasement?"

Tiro did remember.

The worth of a coin lay in two aspects- the worth of the metal and the guarantee of it being legal tender across the Realm, as signified by Robert's mark on it. The stronger the coin, the more recognized it was and the more trusted it was- and the more were said coins minted- from which the Crown- or the Merchant Councils, as in case of the Free cities- got a share of the cut called the seigniorage. However in times of emergency with little wealth to go around, coins could be debased, the precious metal shaved off and diluted with base material to fund the Treasury. As such, the worth of the Coin would fall compared to that of foreign nations- and with it, there would be tendency for the best Coins to leave the Realm altogether- a situation Lord Edmure had called 'Gresham's Law.' He had insisted months back that they prepare for exactly such a situation- and he had been doing so from the very start himself which had led to their control over the flow of Volantene honours into Westeros altogether.

And it looked like their efforts were finally going to pay off. The letter was one written by the pet they'd cultivated in the River-end mint saying that he'd received orders to debase the currency five-fold that day.

"We must prepare for this at once, my Lord," said Tiro as he rose from his chair. "We'll have to redraft the contracts."

"There's no hurry," yawned Lord Edmure as he accepted the letter back. "A market like this, it might take a full month before anyone in the Free Cities wises up to what has happened. And I doubt anyone in Westeros ever will. Finish it before I've returned from the Riverlands. And mind you Aenera doesn't hear of this."

"The Riverlands, Lord Edmure?" exclaimed Ser Willem in surprise. "You didn't tell us you were going!"

"He is," the Blackfish told them, puzzlement clear on his face. "It's on Hoster's letter. There's a Grand Council being called. Edmure, are Petyr's changes indeed so great for us to worry about?"

"The second most important event of the year, uncle," Lord Edmure smiled. "The second most important event of the year!"

"The Blackfish scowled, "Keep your secrets then! I understand nothing of this. Wait- what's the first then?"

Lord Edmure's smile widened. "What else? Gunpowder!"

XXXXXXX

Thanks to everyone for their comments. I've incorporated a few suggestions in the succeeding chapters as well so your contributions are appreciated. I'll answer some of the doubts here.

Ozkarus

Modern humans are, on average, far less skilled in martial arts than medieval knights. I've done a bit of HEMA myself; it takes a lot of discipline, time and practice that we can't afford these days. Not!Edmure is good at strategy but the lack of and training make him far weaker than his counterparts.

Mostly expense. Less than a tenth of medieval European armies used to be armoured and Westeros seems more primitive than our World in most cases, especially business.

The Iron Bank knows and will contact him soon. They've already taken notice of him; there's a minor sign in one of the previous chapters as well. Westeros is a big continent and while people in Dorne and the Iron Isles may not know of Edmure directly, his trade policies are affecting them.

Not!Edmure's actions are constrained not only by the fractious nature of the Riverlands but also the fact that his primary concern- the coming of the Others- is nothing more than an 8000 year old myth.

There's little sense in making 'new' siege weapons. The military revolution was more a factor of logistics and commercial organization than scientific invention. 'Improved crossbows' are far more complex technology than gunpowder.

Naruto9tails

Baelish came to King's Landing barely a week ago and hasn't met with Edmure yet. Not!Edmure knows what policies he will be implementing because he has prior knowledge of the books. Baelish seems to have heavily gone for debasement of currency and selling public office- along with more nefarious deeds. These can be easily exploited by someone who transfers a lot of specie or owns a bank.

Ice melts. Roads in Westeros are non-existent and even towing huge icebergs is not possible given how primitive medieval galley trade was.

Why should Crown expenditure be a concern for Edmure? The Company gets a major chunk of income by being a middle man between Volantenes and the Crown.

Lysa's health is better now thanks to dieting and exercise. Cutting wine and meat, boiling water, and dressings would also ensure better health in medieval conditions, and so better chances of childbirth in the future as well. The current pregnancy is that of Sweetrobin and was normal in canon as well. The primary problem with Lysa and Sweetrobin in ASOIF seem to be psychological rather than physical so their long association with Edmure and Brynden would improve things as well.

Every penny of Tywin's Robert spends is a penny less for the Lannister army. Not!Edmure's trick is to keep most from going abroad to Essos and instead into the Riverlands.

Explaining something like the IRS to medieval barons would be impossible. Westeros seems to follow a mixture of feudal law and tax farming; which Not!Edmure is trying to replace with Scutage and centralized taxation. This would be a nightmare to accomplish in the Riverlands alone, let alone with the Crown. Remember that even Tyrion- who probably has more raw intelligence than even Varys- couldn't understand what Littlefinger was doing with the accounts. Not!Edmure is far less intelligent than Littlefinger but he's professionally trained. Why should he ruin his advantages?

XXXXXXX

The 25th Chapter will be from Edmure's POV

The 50th and last chapter will be from Aenera's POV.


	25. The Unwilling Pilgrim

THE UNWILLING PILGRIM

291 AC

My left arm hurt like a bitch.

Every part of my body hurt like a bitch- but my left arm, in particular, was killing me. Qoryn, one of the new Harrenhal knights Willem had hired, had given me quite a few wallops at evening practice and Christ help me that tinman hadn't held back. I'd improved over last year, improved far more than I'd thought possible but facing off real knights was still no joke at all. Willem bloody moved like he'd been born wearing armour and, even with Edmure's memories and whatever bits I knew from my SCA days, I was like a bloody log in front of him. And Alex would've given his left nut to see some of Blackfish's moves. Made those HEMA exercises he used to go on and on about look like a monkey's jumping.

Edmure wasn't a bad swordsman; by Westerosi standards, he'd been pretty average- which probably put him at the same level as the finest HEMA artists back home. Christ… And to think I'd been impressed at Sydney last year. Edmure would've made mincemeat of Paul Wagner and the young Tully brat didn't even hold a candle to the Blackfish, let alone Jaime Lannister.

The show had messed up bad when they showed Ned holding him off. Goddamned Rambo couldn't have held him off. Nobody could hold Jaime Lannister off. GRRM hadn't overstated Jaime's skill in the books; the arsehole moved like greased lightning. Uncle Bryn…the Blackfish himself could barely fend him off during practice and the only time I faced him, I was flat on my back within a second. Thankfully for us mortals, Jaime wasn't that bad a chap once you got know him a bit. He was an idiot, yes, and was fucking his sister- not that I could blame him once I'd seen Ms Cersei Doutzen-Kroes-is-a-pleb Lannister- but Jaime was one guy you had to struggle to hate. Though I suppose that was because I didn't have a wife he was fucking…

Still, I thought as I tore open the evening's mail Lysa had forwarded me from the Red Keep Rookery, Jaime was one of the few people around here who gave a shit about his troops and smallfolk. Blackfish was an elitist snob, Lysa was simply sheltered, Jon was grasping and opportunistic, Robert merely uncaring- but they were all lightweights compared to how most other nobles treated the smallfolk. Rosby would have his troops cut through crowds if his palanquin didn't have enough space on the roads. There had been a huge shingdig about Langford chopping off someone's head for touching his sword; which Hugo told me was the euphemism they used when a prostitute threatened HIS client. The provinces weren't as bad- but I suppose I'd have to think of some way to get the Vyperns from continuing all the bullshit in their lands. God only knew why old Hoster wasn't doing anything about them…

Hell, if there was any place in space and time that a commie revolution would've improved, it was Westeros. And this was after Bywater told me things had mellowed from the Tywin-Aerys days.

The first letter- Mooton's- was brilliant, just the thing I needed to kick-start the day's business. A merchant's third son had finally perfected the basic Seed Drill design I'd introduced way back. From the description, it seemed impressive, very impressive; Mooton apparently had not only handed him the promised reward the Order had been parcelling out to intrepid local inventers- but also handed him a farm of his own.

I blinked. Maybe there was hope for the Old Fish, after all.

Karyl's wasn't as pleasant. The Brackens had closed one of the routes near their land the Order was in it the habit of using, and were ignoring any missive Atranta or even Seagard had sent. Hoster wasn't going to be pleased- as was usual.

The customary disregard for Trade was playing Hell with Edmure's reputation in parts of the Riverlands. While the Lords had taken to my agricultural reforms like ducks to water- with the Four-field system, the Mouldboard plough, Selective breeding proving popular beyond my wildest dreams, they'd been less enthusiastic about my dealings with the merchants. Even the family of Order members had been sceptical- at least until the recruitment for the Riversguard started.

I'd long made my peace with the fact that I probably wasn't my old life back and had to go through late teens yet again- but I doubt anyone back home could appreciate, really appreciate, the idea of being in a World without smartphones or toilet paper, let alone one as messed up as Westeros. Medieval Europe- as primitive as it was even in its time- had nothing on Westeros. God knows why- maybe it was the Church that kept the old folk sane? Gods only knew. All I in Westeros had were slavers and frauds; and I thanked God every day I had slavers and frauds to deal with.

At least Aenera and the rest of the Essosi knew long division.

In my mind's eye, I could see one great line tearing through the heart of the Riverlands- the old families, those with lineages long enough to fill encyclopaedias and arrogance to match it. The Easterners at Darry and Maidenpool could be cowed down by the memory of the Rebellion, the Westerners by the love their heirs bore for me and the prizes my reforms had brought- but apart from Raventree, few in the Riverlands' heartland had come out overtly in my support. The Brackens had adopted certain of my methods- shipping wool down to Maidenpool to help me undercut Pentoshi fabrics (Aenera's kin in Tyrosh were heling me corner the market in Westeros) - but the grumbling had been growing in recent years.

Marq's letter was the usual report on the grain figures and the results of the experiments. Apparently the Citadel was still insisting on at least partial disclosure of our methods and our maesters were recommending we give them a bone… Bloody grey sheep… Who knew if or how much Pycelle had been passing along to them; I was confident the Order's codes could stand up to anything these dark age quacks can try but brute force was always a risk to encryption. Still it wasn't like I could keep something as obvious as Selective breeding from their knowledge, and I'd rather not have a bunch of dragon-killing poison-using mad scientists on my tail. Better shoot off a letter to Vyman and get him to extract some flesh from the Citadel in return. With the North Wind plan coming up and the need to handle the Currency devaluation, I had little time and energy left to deal with such frivolities.

No response from the Faith yet according to the Elder Brother. Hmm… interesting…

Turns out there were multiple factions within the Faith that Martin hadn't mentioned. In the South, claiming dominion over most of the Reach, the Westerlands and the southern Riverlands was the Oldtown Faith- and boy, were they pissed at me! Apparently before my printing press, they'd held the publishing and writing monopoly over the entire Continent, with even the Kings Landing Guild of Scribes taking direction from them. Their star had sunk the minute Robert handed out the first printed copies of the local Bible to the attendees of Joffrey's last nameday tourney- and there was nothing the Tyrell lickspittles could do to stop me.

On the other hand, the Kings Landing Faith of the Great Sept had only been too glad to see their rivals humbled. Of course the bribes- pardon, 'humble charity'- I'd been hanging out hadn't gone amiss either. The local orphanages and guildhalls from Maidenpool to Kings Landing were full to bursting with homeless and destitute children being funded by me in Kat's and Lysa's names- with reading and writing being taught by the scarce lettered clergy and non-jobless scribes from the Crownlands. When and if the shitstorm started, most of the Crownland's next generation would remember who they owed their education to. As for Dorne- everyone was half-convinced they were all heretics at heart; little sense in doing anything for them. The rest of the Riverlands and the Vale followed an older style of Andalic organization- individual Septries centred around the relics of old Heroes and Saints while wandering friars went around preaching and tending to the Folk. In a sense, they were at the heart of what I'd planned for the Faith.

While it was true that Westeros was unnaturally tolerant of religious diversity; I was aware that the Riverlands- and the Westerlands- were the only Kingdoms to lack any core faith of their own. The Vale, Stormlands and the Reach were classic Seven worshippers. The North and the Ironborn had their own gods. The Dorne was… Dorne. In contrast- almost a fifth of the Riverlands was still worshipping the trees- and many more devout Sept-goers would often be found bowing in front of old oaks and yews. The entire stretch of Westerland hills from the headwaters of the Red Fork to the Blackwater was packed with Old Gods worshippers, with even the wandering friars holding beliefs unconventional enough to have got them burnt in the old days.

It makes sense. Even back home, paganism had a certain appeal. As an Atheist born and raised, I had no real views on the matter- but the Seven took too many cues from Oldtown and Kings Landing for my liking. And the Old gods were real- and not as psychotic as Rahloo or whatever he was called. Not that Hoster- or anyone else for that matter- would see it that way.

I sighed heavily. The lack of allies- any allies- was depressing. And the closest I had to Allies were… well, the crazy North Wind plan stunk to high heaven.

Ouch… my poor arm. I cursed Willem yet again as I tore open a letter marked with both a red salmon and a dancing nude girl. Apparently Humphrey was harassing Yohn…blah…blah…Mooton crying… blah…blah… Raids in the Green Fork… Bloody Freys! My fist came crashing down on the table as I finished the letter.

Freys. Freys. Frey! I hate Freys! I'd hated them when I first read the books back in '99. I hated them when I watched the Red Wedding episode. And since coming to this godforsaken shithole, my hate for them had only grown. Half the Green Fork was going to seed, clashes every month over Hag's Mire, no consideration to my letters even after Hoster gave his blessings, refusal to put up a trading network over in the north... And as if things weren't bad enough, a few days back Robert had started talking about some Aegon Frey going outlaw in the Riverlands and Evil-Doutzen had leapt at the chance to tar Hoster's name. Not that I cared but as goddamned heir to the Riverlands and future overlord of the Freys, I had to say something and I was clueless in these matters without Willem and Tiro whispering stuff into my ears. Thankfully, Lysa had come in to the rescue and all was forgotten after I distracted Robert with some pear brandy.

Lysa had grown on me during my time here- probably because she was one closest to my real age. Wasn't much of a thinker like most of the folk here but at least she was family of a sort now and decent family, not a semi-crazed warlord. I'd long wondered if Lysa had been nuts from the start or she'd just picked it up along- but now I'd say she was just a little kid who'd got too much shit for her age and broken under it. When I turned up in King's Landing, she had just gone through her second miscarriage, was depressed as hell, lonely as sin among those snotty Vale lot, and drinking like the miserable fish on our banners.

Goddamned Hoster… Fortunately, Edmure was probably the only one in the family she still liked and I played up on that as much as I could. Lysa was still a child in her way of seeing things and it turned out that Trish dragging me to watch Frozen did turn out to have a silver lining…

Damn it. Damn it all.

Sigh… anyhow I ended up introducing Disney and Tolkien and Lewis and Rowling to Lysa. Added in a bit of the Bible and Zen too to kick-start any latent moral quandaries; I'd never been much of a believer but after what happened to me, I was ready to hedge all my bets. Made up a new fitness plan, stopped her from drinking whatever foul swills the spineless Coleman was giving her, and introduced these medieval idiots to the balanced diet.

Hey, the way I looked at it, Jon wasn't getting any younger and given that the next lord of the Vale was probably going to be an epileptic, I might as well make him a Julius Caesar rather than Sweetmoron. Anyway, Jon the decrepit had finally succeeded in getting a bun in Lysa seven months ago and I'd managed to ensure Pie-hole stayed away from her. Goddamned Lannister lick-spittle…

Landing into Shitholos central had shown me how little I really knew. Most of my engineering skill was either useless without modern technology or too capital intensive to use. Aenera and other Essosi could run circles around me and only my knowledge of modern financial instruments and marketing gimmicks were keeping me ahead. Hell, I shouldn't have mixed with them in the first place… but both the Heptarchate and I needed each other then. But the leeway I was getting was disturbing.

Selling out our printing to the Essosi had removed my head start in marketing outright. I never had any illusions that I could undercut the Heptarchate in prices and merely tried to create a Brand War, the first ever in Westeros. Of course, I did win… but it was too easy. Too easy. The Pentoshi and Myrish were pouring money like water, still trying to fight off my dominance in cloth but the one person I'd been so wary off had just agreed to all my demands…

Maybe I was just being paranoid. No use splitting my head into pieces…

A knock sounded on the door. At my answer, a grease-stained head peeked in.

"Lord Edmure," said Tiro, "The reports have come in from Duskendale. They're willing to spare four thousand of their Small folk in exchange for our terms."

"Excellent!" I exclaimed, getting up from my chair. "Bill has done better than I'd thought. Did he agree to apportion the funds from his fund?"

"He has," was the grinning reply. "He has also agreed to sign over most of the new docks for our exclusive use, as well as six berths for any warships the Order might build in the future. That reminds me!" Tiro dug into the pouch at his waist. "The Vances have got the Ferry service running, and the Riverguards are clearing the shores of the Trident and the Blue Fork off bandits and cutthroats. Once the main channels are secured, they'll start work in the Central, Swamp, and the North March districts."

Martin's Westeros was a land more akin to Dark Age Europe than the Middle Ages. In real life, peasant levees were rare, there were more ranks than simply 'King', 'Lord', and 'Knight', Tax collection and bureaucracy was fairly developed. I'd made up my mind to improve all of them- plus a little extra. Organizing the entire land into districts was but the first step. I smiled contently as I leant back into my chair. "It's time for a personal touch then, I guess. Have you given orders to our agents to start stockpiling old gold dragons?"

"Aye, my Lord," nodded Tiro as he answered my grin, "We expect that nearly a tenth of the Kingdom's dragons would be in our coffers by the time Lord Baelish's new dragons go into circulation."

Only fools thought Robert to be one.

The goal of a Government was to enrich the land, not enrich themselves. Robert may have been profligate and wasteful- but by handing out money like taffy, he enriched the people, infused funds into the economy, and encouraged development and innovation. Within a mere ten years of his taking the throne, Kings Landing was back to its pre-sack glories, and revenues had been up nearly five times. In three hundred years, the Targaryens built nothing for Westeros but a dirt track grandiosely called the 'Kingsroad'. Robert- along with Jon and Stannis- had not only rebuilt Kings Landing and Duskendale- but also raised a new Fleet from scratch. If not for Littlefinger butting in and siphoning off funds into his own coffers, the books would've found the Realm's Finances fairly secure- if not overflowing like in the days of Tywin's miserly reign.

But Tywin had one major strength- he encouraged confidence in the Realm's economy. Wealth was Power- and vice versa; and merely the prospect of Lord Tywin crushing the corrupt was reason enough for merchants to folk to his banner, no matter how niggardly the old man might've been with expenses. I aimed to be Tywin's equal.

I had one unique advantage among all Westerosi merchants. I was a Lord Paramount- or at least heir to one.

The Free Cities were powerful not because of their Naval might or educated populace, but because they had access to vast amounts of funds that Westerosi merchants could never access. Even tiny Essosi City Sates like Sar Mell and Myr Tharn had their own banks; all Westeros had none. Even Pentos had tender legally accepted from Qarth to Ib; Westerosi dragons were backed by nothing but the capriciousness of the Lannisters and the Iron Throne. Essosi merchants were trusted and familiar with Contracts; Westerosi were considered too ignorant and unreliable. By partnering with Aenera's father and accepting Volantene tender as payment, I'd manged to counter two of these problems. And as for a bank?

The Riverlands was my bank.

As such, among all Westerosi merchants—save maybe the Redwyne pirates, I was the one best placed to weather the natural period of turbulence when Littlefinger began to call back the old, heavy dragons and replace them with his newer, lighter 'little' dragons. Littlefinger's plans were obvious- since the Realm earned a cut off every coin it minted, the newer dragons would earn the Realm greater wealth- which the fraud would then divert into his own accounts. In addition, overhauling the minting and gaining access to the hiring and paying of city officials would give him access to almost all the specie production and make it easier for the goon to divert both revenue and debt repayment into his own coffers. And when events like a Tourney would arise, the little shit would just let a trickle slip into the coffers. The added turbulence in the Markets because of the shit's 'reforms' would only be another opportunity to enrich himself and ruin Westerosi merchants- who often funded the nobles- at the same time.

It was pretty much the same modus operandi Ponzi schemers used back home.

With my vast land holdings and access to Volantene specie, I was much better placed to weather Littleshit's storm than anyone else in Westeros. Not only that- by draining the Markets of old dragons by various means (holding off payments in lieu of promises, paying creditors in kind, telling Hoster to hold off tax payments to the Iron Throne 'until Finances stabilize' etc) - I could position the Company as the only reliable trader in Westeros once Littleshit's reforms kicked in and everyone found their good old reliable dragons replaced by new flimsy drakes.

And once that happened- let Littleshit have Kings Landing!

I would control all trade flowing in the hinterland of the Continent. From my Maidenpool office, I could choke out millennia-old trade routes at will, open up vast new resource pools, and create businesses where there were none. Lannister gold could buy mercenaries- but not trade networks of the Company. Reach armies might be heavy on Steel- but without Company gold, they were little more than a band of bandits.

And the Company had ways to deal with bandits.

"Good." Christ, I could've killed for a good old cold beer now. "Tiro, I'm leaving for the Riverlands tonight itself. I ought to see for myself what has been going on back home while I was here."

The boy was surprised. "Leaving?" he stammered, "But… but what about the trade? What about the weapon?"

"The weapon can wait," I replied. To be honest, I still had no idea how I was going to reconcile the idea of gunpowder warfare with Westeros; it was unlikely that I could recreate the requisite level of sophistication and organization needed for it in Westeros. Even medieval European-levels of sophistication seemed impossible, let alone that of the 'Gunpowder Empires' of Asia. Even making good cannon-grade gunpowder looked difficult; the products I'd obtained until now were either slow-burning and clumsy or far too unstable and unsuitable for gunpowder warfare. "Tiro, has Robert signed off my Charter?" The boy had been hanging around the Court for over a week now- with little to show for it. Brynden was out in the Crownlands, shaking the lords for tax money, Lysa was heavily pregnant and bed-ridden, and Jon had been uncommunicative of late- I was effectively without eyes in the Court.

"Er… About that, my Lord… Daeron was saying…"

Afternoon found me cooling my heels in the Court itself while the painted nobles tried to flatter and humour an irritated-looking Jon sitting on the Iron Throne. Robert was missing as usual; he'd been drinking more and more since I introduced brandy to the bloody place and lately I'd found myself wondering whether I'd just made things worse. Daeron stood next to me, fidgeting miserably. He'd been put in charge of wrangling good enough terms from the Small Council- to little avail. The fact that Littlefinger and Evil-Doutzen were standing but a few feet away wasn't helping matters either. Thankfully, a bunch of chittering noble women and a horde of fat, old noblemen helped hide us two from the rest of the fools there.

"Fancy seeing you in Court, my Lord," a silky voice whispered into my ear, nearly making me jump into a particular obese specimen of the former.

Lord Varys was a soft looking man, with a soft face and soft hands and a soft purple gown covering his corpulent, pudding-like body. I'd been avoiding him all the time I'd been in Kings Landing; and I was sure Aenera and he were having some sort of crazy civil war in the shadows. My own spies in the Gold Cloaks- led by Perwyn- often told me of incredibly high murder rates in Flea bottom these days. If only the poor fuckers knew what would be in store for them once Littleshit really got his fingers into the pie.

"Lord Varys," I greeted him with a small nod. "Daeron here was having little headway with my Charter. I felt a Lord Paramount's heir appealing in the open Court would stand a better chance."

"Greetings, Lord Varys," smiled Daeron as he scooted out of the way of a fat old lady in ermine and pink as she trudged through the crowd. "Lord Edmure, Lord Varys has been a great help these past weeks. He as the one who helped me draft the correspondence and the appeals to the Small Council…" Fucking little idiot! I frowned at the boy as he went on chittering happily.

"That he would, my Lord," twinkled Lord Varys at Daeron. "But an open court appeal reflects a need for urgency and trust, doesn't it?"

Something seemed out of place. I narrowed my eyes, even as something was screaming at me to ignore him. "Er… I suppose so," I said slowly as I glanced towards the Iron Throne. A Pentoshi-looking chap was droning on and on about the wax trade as Jon frowned. As I watched, Littleshit moved up and started joking around- and the crowd towards the front of the Hall began to laugh. The laughter spread among the lackeys and sycophants crowding the Hall- and soon even the people around us were laughing, even though no one had any idea of what the joke had been. I turned to Lord Varys.

The spider was smiling. "A Lord Paramount's heir would've laughed as well. It is so necessary to keep up appearances."

Something was really, really wrong. I glanced towards the Iron Throne again. Jon looked as grim as Sean Bean in the show. Littleshit was glibly prancing around the now-livid Pentoshi. Doutzen Kroes was frowning. Ripples of laughter were flowing through the nobles packing the…

I glanced around the tittering nobles around me.

Lord Varys smiled and clapped his hands.

As one being, every single noble around us three- the fat old women, the pretty young ladies, the tired looking old men, the geezers wheezing into their handkerchiefs fell silent. Another clap and they started laughing. Yet another and they fell silent, as if they were nothing but automatons to the Spider as he tugged at the threads. Another clap and the threads tightened and laughter echoed around our little group as the very blood chilled in my veins. Another… "I get your point," I snarled at the spider as Daeron gripped my arm in terror. "What do you want?"

The spider held up his hands, his face twisted into mock fear. "Please, my Lord," he whimpered, "Pray- do not be so suspicious of me. I merely desire a moment's time."

I glanced around at the seemingly unconcerned nobles around me. There was a Langward among them. A cadet Velaryon as well. I gritted my teeth; just how many Houses does the guy have his fingers in? What if they attacked me here? Like always, I wore a half-sleeved shirt of mail sewn under my clothes but Daeron was unarmoured. Even if we two could bring down a half a dozen of the women and old men with our longswords- even a single dagger…

"Let's go," I barked at the Spider. "Daeron, guard my back. If you see any steel, strike to kill. I'm sure Hoster and Brynden would convince Jon to overlook any problems."

The spider merely smiled.

A soft grating sound came to my ears- and like magic, a doorway appeared behind us. A secret passage- right into the heart of the Red Keep's Court. I glanced at the Spider. He lifted a delicately formed eyebrow. "Lead on, Lord Varys," I commanded the man as my hand dropped to my sword hilt. Knight or no Knight, I was no slouch back in my HEMA group. Varys would have another thing coming if he pulled a fast one upon me.

"You're a rather difficult man to meet, Lord Edmure," the Spider purred as he led the two of us deeper into the corridor.

"I wonder why. The Company's offices are visible from the Red Keep itself," I drawled as I followed him. Daeron was guarding my back while I kept a keen eye on the walls. If danger came, a swift draw would end Varys within two seconds.

"Refreshments?"

I would've been crazy to take any- even if it wasn't the Spider offering. As far as I knew, no one in Westeros outside Lysa's and my own Household even boiled their water. "No, thank you. Lord Varys. I've eaten at my docks before coming. And you didn't answer my questions."

"Ah yes, my Lord. In truth, the way to your dwellings is guarded by quite officious guardians," was the soft reply as Lord Varys opened a door so well-hidden I hadn't even noticed it and led us into his rooms. It was an airy, well-lit chamber which overlooked the Sea; quite a surprise to me given the Spider's love for the dark and the dank corridors his birds lurked in. Then I remembered Kevan's murder in the books and shivered. "Ser Brynden has been very enthusiastic in his duties," went on Varys as he ushered them into the chairs in front of the desk by the window. "Already more than half the Gold Cloaks consist of solid Rivermen and Crabbs- and they're either too loyal or too terrified of the Blackfish to take my gold. And in the alleys and streets of the City, there are whispers of an even more terrifying and cruel puppet-master, lithe and delicate and dangerous as a viper in a flower bed."

"Yes, I know Lord Baelish. I grew up with him," I spat off irritably. Why wasn't he coming to the point?

The Spider fell silent, his mouth open in surprise. Daeron timidly spoke up, "Lord Edmure. Sir. I think he's talking about Lady Aenera."

Oh!

Varys had recovered now. "Young Ser Daeron is right. The beauty and ethereal delicacy of the Lady blinds many to her fangs and cruelty. O my Lord Edmure, if but you could've seen the tears of the children of the poor Cartwright her goons murdered the other day. Or that of the wine merchant her men strangled on her command in the Street of Silk. True- they passed it off as a mugging gone wrong to good Ser Perwyn but…"

"If you have no proof, it means nothing," I snarled again. "Perwyn isn't going to listen to old wives' tales. Neither will uncle Brynden. Robert rules us, not Aerys. We have laws in this Country now, not some madman's dreams." But even as I spoke, I had few doubts that the tales were true. As Varys said- Aenera was as beautiful as a snake and as deadly. Brynden had once told me & Lysa during a dinner that she reminded him of the old Targaryens- like a fair and wrathful god come onto Earth to satisfy her desires and lusts upon mortals. I had no idea whether that was the case- but Aenera did seem to think of herself as some sort of Goddess or Targaryen, and her demands were proportionate.

Nevertheless, it was the Paenymions who were my allies- of a sort- and I wasn't going to hand the girl over to…

"My Lord Edmure," purred Varys.

I held up my hand. "The letters you helped Daeron draft ever reached Jon, did they?" I asked coldly as the boy beside me looked up with a shocked face.

The Spider smiled. "They might have found their way… to a rather untouched part of the Master of Laws' correspondence. Alas- some men are scarcely as diligent as our Lord Hand."

"And all this because you wished me in secret?" I asked.

"All this to aid you, my young Lord," purred lord Varys as he dug out a letter from the pile of papers that littered his desk. "For you."

Daeron looked wary as he watched me tear open the parchment- clearly Lord Varys had begun patronizing the cheap linen-based stuff we were churning out these days instead of parchment- and begun to read. By the time I'd finished, he looked positively alarmed. I realized that he was simply reacting to the look on my face.

Rebellion.

Filthy old Lord Frey had hosted a bunch of rather taciturn and uncooperative lords at the Twins not a week past. They had carried out rather unsavoury conversations while sequestered in the more private parts of the Twins. Accusing me of promoting slavery, raising the sceptre of Northern barbarians being housed in the Riverlands, mocking the idea of the next Lord Paramount acting as a Pentoshi cheese-monger… the list went on and on. Black Walder had apparently been in Pentos the previous month, scouting out mercenary companies. Lords and heirs and knights who'd got the shit end of Hoster's stick during the Rebellion had been meeting regularly in inns and taverns. And even more surprisingly…

"So, our good Queen is behind this?" I muttered as I set down the letter. "Why?" Even as I spoke the words, I felt stupid. Cersei was insane. What other reason could be there?

"A good question, my Lord," Varys replied calmly as he lifted the letter with a delicately manicured hand. "But you must remember that… misunderstandings might happen. But you will be pleased to know that young Lord Tyrion hasn't seen fit to communicate such matters to Casterly Rock."

"But I still have a Queen sending ravens to the Riverlands," I mused. Fuck the golden-haired shits. Fuck Tywin. Fuck the Freys.

Hoster wasn't a bad Lord. He was stern, fair, and no one can deny the abilities of a man who'd ensured his grandchildren would grow up to inherit three whole Kingdoms. Nevertheless- he had a vindictive and petty undercurrent that played out in the weirdest ways. North Wind, for one. And leaving the Freys in power while heaping insults upon him all these years… We- or at least I- know just how it could bite him in the arse the minute House Tully was in trouble…

House Tully in trouble…

"Daeron," I commanded the boy, "Run to the Company. Find Tiro." Gods knew the kid was smart; maybe I ought to start buying slaves and freeing them in Westeros? I could easily pass it off as some sort of religious malarkey- then employ them in Riverstadt at a reasonable wage. Aenera would spit fire as usual- but if I gave her a cut of the profits, I doubt she'd complain. The girl's lack of a conscience scared me at times; investing in a tough Riverlands bodyguard was one of the first things I'd done after she'd set up shop in my Keep. Too bad; she wasn't a bad thing to look at and at least she and Tiro were the closest this World had to someone from back home. "Listen well. I want this to be done exactly as I command." I closed my eyes and steepled my fingers under my chin. "I want every tradesman who passes through the neck in my employ. Every tinkerer, every peddler, every single one. Tell Tiro I want them all within six months."

The squire was frowning. Slowly he replied, "Sir, I am not as skilled in such matter as Ser Willem or Master Tiro but this is unadvisable…"

"It'll require us to hand out a few loans, play off thugs to raid known roads, may be threaten one or two- discretely of course. Six months would be tough but…Take eight," I replied brusquely as Lord Varys observed us keenly. "No more. The Ferry service was running, right? Tell Ser Willem to write to Karyl. Focus on the Green Fork. No- wait. Tell him to ensure that Darry is in charge."

"Lord Darry! Ser, this is…"

Arguing with his future liege Lord in front of the Spider? I suppressed a groan as I cut short his words coldly. "Darry will serve or none will. I want all trade even in the vicinity of the river under me by the time I'm ready to travel north."

"The Freys will take offence."

I didn't reply- instead turning to face Lord Varys. The boy- stupid as he was- would've been a fool not to take the hint. As he scuttled out of the door, I spoke. "You still haven't given proper explanations for stalling my Riverstadt Charter."

"The Charter will be yours before you head back to your Keep tonight, my Lord," tittered Varys as if he was some little kid. "But I also observe you didn't demand any conclusive proof before giving young Daeron his orders."

"I believe you." At least on this. This was exactly the sort of bullshit only the Freys and Lannisters could get up to.

The Spider practically beamed. "A very wise choice, good Ser Tully. A very wise choice, indeed." He bowed slightly, "I hope I can render future services as well. New friends…"

I held a finger. "Why?"

"Pardon?"

"Why do it?" I repeated, sighing heavily. "You know well enough I am no friend of yours. Aenera is an ally of mine- and she appears to be against you. And given the unusual number of urchins hanging around the Bellcasters' street these days, the twins are sure that you've been spying on my new weapon." A savage grin broke out on my face as Varys appeared to shrivel in front of me. Then again he was probably just pretending. Maybe. Fuck this paranoia-inducing Martinverse! "Why aid me in this?"

The Spider had recovered from my abrupt disclosure that I knew about his 'birds'- and I could already see him starting on the bullshit 'Realm' speech. Yeah, right! As if I was ever going to buy that tripe. As I absentmindedly listened to him go on and on about how Westeros had long been left alone to the depredations of the Essosi merchants and how it was laudable that a Lord Paramount's heir was helping the smallfolk and all that crap, the dim inklings of the plan that had been forming in my head to flummox the Freys suddenly blazed into completeness.

I slammed my fist on the table, unheeding of the Spider's consternation at his papers flying off everywhere. "I've got it!"


	26. The Lioness Roars

CERSEI

291 AC

A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted outside the doors of the council chambers when the small council was in session. Today it was Ser Boros Blount. More the pity- for the man was incapable for even doing something as basic as eaves-dropping on the Fools' meetings. She wondered her twin was. Doubtless in some sort of debauchery with the filthy dwarf.

Cersei made her way towards Kingsguard, now in conversation with the Blackfish and Lord Baelish. The rest of the little group had already gone ahead, Ser Bryan of Cider Hall and Red Robar the latest additions to their number. More foolishness! For once, Cersei was perfectly in agreement with Stannis; the new Council seats were ridiculous beyond description- especially when two of the chief members, the drunkard Luthor Tyrell and young Edmure, didn't even bother to attend the meetings. Why the Tully heir wasn't even in King's Landing; he'd ridden off north the previous day for some reason. Hopefully uncle Stafford would make the fools see sense when he turned up to take his seat- but Cersei rather doubted that.

"Ser Brynden," the queen said pleasantly, "you look quite grey this morning. Something you ate, perchance?" Such a gracious query would've brought men to their knees; Cersei knew. She had done it earlier.

Brynden merely stared at her coldly. "No, Your Grace," was the curt reply as he went back to his conversation with Ser Boros. "Are you sure it was A Tyroshi," he demanded of the now-glowering Kingsguard. "Nobody else?"

"How would I know if it was a Tyroshi or a Pentosi or whatever?" growled Ser Boros before bowing to Cersei, "Your Grace, how many I serve?" Cersei smiled softly as she saw the frustration in Ser Brynden's eyes. "Lord Baelish," she smiled as she turned to the third man.

Baelish was looking rather wan and tired. No wonder- from what little Cersei had been hearing. Baelish's great plans to reform the Currency had come a cropper. For weeks, the mockingbird lord had been boasting of his plans- how he meant to recast the old dragons of the Realm into new, how his efforts would bring down payments for the loans the Throne had taken, how incomes would rise twice or thrice within the year. Cersei had mistrusted the Arryn lackey; who wouldn't? Her mistrust had grown even further when she'd been ranting about the mousy Master of Coin one night to Jaime- and her more foolish twin had sheepishly said that the demon monkey thought Baelish's plans had merit.

Of course- it had been Cersei who'd been right in the end.

Barely a week ago had Jon Arryn uncharacteristically, torn into the Maser of Coin in public. The latter's grand plan to reform the coinage had been a disaster. To hear the man speak- there weren't enough old dragons around for them to melt and recast into the new moulds.

Cersei hadn't heard anything more preposterous in her life. She'd told Lord Baelish as such when he and Jon Arryn had come to her begging to write to her father to let them borrow virgin gold. She'd written the letters in the end- if only to gain greater concessions for her House; two new squires and better barracks for her guardsmen- but apparently her father had agreed with her. Lord Tywin had written back refusing them coldly, saying that he'd already sent more than enough virgin gold to the Realm's mints for the year.

"Your Grace," the sad-looking Master of Coin had nodded weakly. Cersei felt another surge of triumph warm her skin. "I hope this morning finds you in fine stead."

"Better than ever, my Lord Baelish," Cersei smiled, "But alas- how can I repose when I hear such damning tales of woe in the Red Keep?"

Ser Boros frowned, and so did Baelish. Ser Brynden was the one to ask, "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"Just that, my good Ser. Even within the Keep, there have been tales. Entire guilds running short of coin to pay their creditors. Merchants having to use Volantene and Braavosi coinage instead of good Westerosi dragons. Riots and murders down in FleaBottom. Mints not churning out enough coin for the Kingdoms…" Cersei sighed dramatically. "My Lord Father has been exceedingly worried. He writes as much in his letters."

"It wouldn't have been a problem if the Mint masters were working properly!" Lord Baelish began to babble, his voice growing higher and louder every word. "I've told the Hand already they're working too slowly! I can't…"

"Lord Baelish," came Ser Brynden's guttural growl in warning, as the usual loungers around the Throne Room began to stare. "Apologies, Your Grace. Lord Baelish is simply over-worked. But rest assured we will have the situation under control soon enough. I have Goldcloaks patrolling…"

"How soon, Ser Brynden," Cersei delighted in hearing her silky voice burst the buffoon's babbling. All Tullys were the same; bluster and barbarism. Even the young Edmure was nothing but an upjumped merchant. "I am hearing of chaos spreading both in the Riverlands and the Reach as well. Only yesterday I received a letter from an old lord of the Realm bemoaning the loss of our Kingdoms' values." She inwardly cheered at the throbbing vein at the Blackfish's forehead. "With foreign coin passing muster in the Capital and nobles consorting with merchants, Chivalry seems all but dead today," she finished with a sigh, her hand fluttering towards her brow.

Delicious! The look on Brynden's florid face was delicious! Vylarr had been against it when Adam had introduced her to the bandit Aenys, sneaking him into the Keep through the kitchens two months ago. But through him, Cersei had gained her allies in the Neck- and through them, almost a third of the Houses of the Riverlands. The Tullys would pay for their depredations on the Gold Road. Possibly she could use the excuse to have Brynden thrown out of the Small Council? Have Jon Arryn send him off in disgrace? Vylarr and Adam thought it unlikely but what did those lowborn know?

"Your Grace, our loyalty to the Throne is unquestionable," the Blackfish was speaking through gritted teeth.

"Your Loyalty is not in question, my good Ser," was the smooth queenly reply. "Merely your capacity."

Lord Baelish flinched. The Blackfish's face was almost puce, a fascinating colour. He all but hissed, leaning towards Cersei in his wrath, "We are servants of the Iron Throne, Your Grace. You but need to command us and we will…"

"Keep distance, Ser," intoned Ser Boros as he muscled between the two, his hands upon the hilt of his sword.

Already people were staring. Too many, in fact. If they had been alone in a dark corridor- maybe it wouldn't have gone amiss to have Ser Boros kill the two Arryn lackeys in front of her. Lord Baelish was a weakling- and despite his renown, the Blackfish was an aging man armed with nothing but a knife. Maybe later… Cersei laid an arm on Ser Boros' shoulder. "I am sure Ser Brynden's actions merely reflect his irritation at his inadequacies, Ser Boros. But you must excuse me now, my good Sers," Cersei said genially. "I must now go seek out my brother. I haven't seen him since morning."

"You'll find Ser Jaime near the moat with Ser Arys," said the Blackfish coolly. "Lord Tyrion was in the gardens, reading a book."

"You have been spying, have you, good Ser?" Cersei asked pleasantly enough to which the Blackfish merely shrugged. "It's my job," he said curtly as he turned his back on the Queen and strode off, leaving Cersei fuming at the arrogance of it.

 _If I were Robert and held the throne, the Blackfish would've been frying for this insult. Fools dancing in circles as the Realm burnt_ , though Cersei bitterly as she glared after him. She was still glaring at his retreating back when the Crakehall girl found her.

"Your Grace," tittered one of her new Ladies-in-waiting, "The new dressmakers will be here soon. We must hurry."

Hurry? Cersei suppressed a surge of irritation as she glared down at the young fool fidgeting besides her. This one had been a favour to Jaime's old friends, the Crakehalls- a daughter of one of their landed knights. Cersei would've ordinarily ignored it but Jaime had made the request at the end of one of the most exhilarating nights they'd shared in months, and Cersei- as she would often bemoan to herself- was far too generous for her own good.

It was good that she was one- or one wretch of a dwarf would've long been without a head. Already the 'Dwarf's penny' had become a by-word among the brothels of Kings Landing- or so her spies told her.

Those that still remained, that is.

A brutal war had erupted in Flea Bottom with armed groups of criminals battling each other for control of the shadows. Armed with new weapons and a discipline forged from greed, bands of cut-throats had gathered under the banner of gutter-lords of their own making and were fighting brutal, bloody wars for control of the slums. Jon Arryn and Brynden Tully had been content to let things simmer as long as no nobles were harmed and unrest didn't spill over to the more prosperous parts of the City- but Cersei's spy network had been gutted. She'd raged at Vylarr when the old Captain had limped over to tell her the news.

"Your Grace," the old soldier had knelt in front of her some months ago. "I fear the last of my spies has been murdered in a tavern. I will have to recruit a new group."

It had been an incredible effort for Cersei not to let go at the kneeling fool. Vylarr's long history of service might have tempered her wrath- but how long could she be expected to put up with the foolishness of her servants? "Why, my good Captain!" she had asked as pleasantly as possible. "Surely attending to the little tasks I set aren't particularly onerous, are they?"

To his credit- the old fool had been wise enough to wince in recognition of his faults. "Apologies, Your Grace. FleaBottom is where most of the cheaper whorehou… establishments of the night are. With the drink and the women, men begin to talk…" He shrugged helplessly.

Cersei knew the rest of it. Men talked- and then they died. All of Cersei's spies in the City- and a good number of those who worked in the Red Keep had been found battered and dead. In the mornings, the Blackfish and his Riverland cronies in the Goldcloaks would find the corpses. They would break down doors, question suspects, and go about patrols on the docks- but to no avail. No matter how many lackeys and thugs they caught and brutalized, the puppet-masters remained elusive. Last week had seen one of Lysa Arryn's own servants found beaten to death in a FleaBottom whorehouse.

The old Hand had been furious beyond words. For the first time in her life, Cersei had seen the sapless, decrepit Lord raising his voice, thundering away at everyone he saw, and all but stationing an army in front of his Household chambers where his idiot wife and mewling twins hid. He had been furious enough to yell at Robert, an insult if there ever was. Cersei had tried to point out the grievous assault such behaviours was on the Realm- but the fat oaf had all but struck her.

"Jon's little kids was almost kidnapped and you're talking about manners, you golden-haired shit?" he'd roared at her.

Instead Robert had elected to stomp up and down the Red Keep, warhammer in hand, yelling at the Kingsguard, the Cooks, the chambermaids, Lord Varys, the squires, even the black cat she'd often seen roaming the Court. He'd even shouted at the Blackfish- who, unlike Jon Arryn, had the wits to remain silent and take responsibility for his faults. The Blackfish, in turn, had been heard lambasting his captains- the Frey boy, Jeremiah Crabb, the Smallwoods, and the rest of his Riverland lackeys. That's all men were good for- shirking responsibility and hammering those weaker than them. No wonder the streets of Kings Landing were full of pissed-off Goldcloaks ready to beat up and detain anyone whom they didn't like the look of. The Frey boy alone had got into fistcuffs with two different Crownland nobles for something he called 'vagrancy'. Across the Blackwater, that wretched Tully boy's Keep grew ever higher and stronger; they even seemed to be mounting a trebuchet- a trebuchet- on the walls.

It would have been all the more worse if any of them knew that Cersei had been paying the murdered servant a silver dragon each week. Thankfully Vylarr had been sensible enough to cover the tracks…

"Your Grace, we must hurry! Already it is too late for…"

 _The Others take the Crakehalls!_ "Go away, fool," Cersei snapped at the girl, who was now pulling at her sleeve. "I can manage without you perfectly fine!" She watched the little chit scurry off, eyes brimming with tears. Cersei sighed; she'd have to talk with Jaime. See if she couldn't get the Crakehalls to get a proper Lady-in-waiting for herself. Even a family of boar-headed fools could possibly churn out someone of average intelligence…

"Your Grace," Adam- one of her most loyal guardsmen- appeared at her side so suddenly that Cersei almost flinched. Almost.

Regal as a lioness, Cersei smiled in response to his bow. "I hope the business went well, Adam?"

"In part, Your Grace," the guardsman replied before lowering his voice, "We have provided enough wine and goods to the ringleaders- but I regret to say that trade has collapsed long the Mander. Lord Baelish's new reforms, you see. The bigger merchants and artisans can't afford much trade. We have no way to arm the rebels- or acquire the services of any traitorous merchants."

Cersei frowned. Long had she wanted to show those upstart Tyrells their true position. Edmure's rashness in paying off bandits to raid the Gold Road had given her just the opportunity. The Tyrell's continuing woes with the smallfolk had been what had given her the idea. Luthor Tyrell- the new Grand Panetier- had once happened to mention how the Smallfolk unrest from the previous year had yet to subside. Cersei had made inquiries- sending Vylarr to investigate personally. It had turned out that Renly's promised largesse had never arrived- and neither had Highgarden's. Robert's aid had been conveniently lost by Lord Baelish and maesters of the Lords of the Reach- and as always, it had been the gauntlet and the chain that ensured the Peace.

From there on, it had been but a small matter to ply the Smallfolk with enough strongwine and spears to goad them into rebelling openly.

Of course- Vylarr didn't expect the traitorous wretches to actually win anything save more taxes and brutality from their rightful betters. The Lannister guard captain had assured her that when the Reach Lords and Knights turned up the heat on the few thousand or so rebelling peasants, they'd naturally drift towards the Crownlands. With two neighbouring Kingdoms in turmoil, there were none who could march to Hoster Tully's aid in time when the Freys finally unfurled the banner of rebellion. The North was simply too far away and the Vale could be bottled up within the Mountains easily enough. Even a fool like Old Walder could manage it.

But if trade itself was under threat. Damn Baelish!

"Adam," she commanded. "Ask Vylarr to release some of the dragons from our personal caches. I will…"

"Your Grace," came a greeting from her side.

Cersei turned to find a young silver-haired girl curtsying at her side, dressed in blue silks and with a silver choker around her neck. A new Lady-in-waiting? Cersei frowned. Surely Stannis hadn't started pushing his provincial fools onto the Court now as well? The girl was pretty enough, in the common way girls among the peasants and small knightly families were in the first flush of Youth- but dour Stannis wasn't the type of be carried away by such things… But then again, all men deep down were the same. Westerosi disdain for women was a pox upon their land.

"I'm sorry, girl," replied Cersei, nodding in response. "I forget which House you are from. The Velaryons, was it? I wasn't aware they had a daughter of your age…"

"Oh! I am not from Dragonstone, Your Grace," the girl exclaimed softly. She had a pleasant voice- and far better diction than the fools at Court; even her accent reminded Cersei of the lilting hills and deep ravines of the Westerlands. Possibly a long lost cousin from the West? Some of the southern houses did have Valyrian blood from old marriages… "My name is Aenera of the Paenymion Heptarchate of Lys."

Cersei's good mood vanished in an instant. A common Essosi whore. And if that wasn't enough- whore to the dumbest fool among all the heirs of the Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Throne was clearly dropping in respect faster than she'd thought if common whores could saunter into the Red Keep like this. Cersei glanced around and saw a group of Redcloaks lounging at the side and talking with Ser Boros. Fools, all of them! She wondered whether the little shit in front of her had slept with some of them in order to gain entrance.

Outwardly- nevertheless- Cersei was the picture of grace. "Lady Aenera, I greet you in my Royal husband's name. How can I aid you this fine day?" The whore wore fine clothes, at the very least- but then again, Cersei had been hearing of the cheap cloth being peddled by the Riverlords these days. Clearly- Edmure hadn't been spending much on the slut. Cersei's eyes went again to the group of Lannister troops arrayed at the edges of the Room, chatting with the usual lackeys of the Court and flirting with the serving wenches. Maybe she could have the whore seized and thrown into the dungeons? Have her raped throughout the night by the garrison before being returned to her master?

"Your Grace," the little whore went on, uncaring of what Cersei was planning for her. "I fear princess Myrcella might require your aid. It is…"

"What have you done to my daughter?" Cersei hissed in sudden alarm. A threat, was it? Had Edmure realized what the Freys were planning? In that case, she wouldn't rest until the entire Tully Keep across the Blackwater was ashes. "Speak up!" The girl flinched- but Cersei pressed on, eager to press her advantage. Already, the Redcloaks were looking up, drawn by the sound. Ser Boros was making his ponderous way towards them already. Oh! If the whore had done anything to Myrcella, Cersei would've her torn alive from limb to limb.

The Lyseni was backing away, her limbs and voice trembling and tears filling her delicate eyes. "Your Grace, you mistake me. I bear the princess no harm. It's just that I saw Lord Tyrion…"

That miserable dwarf. That horrid little monkey.

Cersei didn't even realize when she was rushing out of the Throne Room, a posse of Redcloaks at her heels. She stormed through the corridors. Where was he? Where was Tyrion? What was he doing to Myrcella? Wait- the whore knew. She stopped and looked around- but apart from the panicked faces of the Redcloaks and the terrified omnipresent serving girls, there was none. What was she doing? This wasn't the time to flop around like… The Blackfish's face came floating to the fore of her mind. Cersei almost rant to the gardens, her troops at her heels. If anything happened to her precious Myrcella… When Myrcella was older, she'd have to teach her the dangers of dwarfs and other unnatural creatures. It was best to be careful; all knew of the unnatural desires of dwarves, wildlings and other such beasts.

The gardens were a bevy of noise and laughter when she stormed into the dappled sunshine beneath the towering trees and topiary. Ladies-in-waiting, young love-struck knights, mummers, jugglers, and performers lounged about and danced in gay abandon- before jumping up in alarm as they beheld Cersei's group thundering through the garden. But the largest group of them took no notice of her- gathered around a little gazebo as they were, enthralled by some performance going on there. Cersei pushed past them- and then she saw it.

It was a bear. A great hulking, wild, crazed bear. And Myrcella sat atop it.

Cersei felt herself saying something- what she had no idea- and the Redcloaks acted. The terrified master of the bear- a Reachman by the looks of him- looked up in alarm for one stunned second before Ser Boros opened him from navel to throat. His assistants were speared where they stood. A serving girl began to scream and was thrown to the ground.

Myrcella and the bear she sat on- stood stunned for one second. Then the bear roared- and the screams began.

With one swipe of its paw, the creature slew a rushing Redcloak. It batted around, trying to throw off Myrcella from the saddle upon its back. Another swipe- and another Redcloak fell. Some fool rushed ahead- and buried half of his spear into the bear's side- and the creature jumped again, almost throwing her darling daughter off. While the muzzle on its mouth and the restraints around its paws were preventing it from lashing out, what little mobility it still had was enough. Another swipe of its paws and two girls were thrown around like leaves. The air was heavy with the smell of blood and fear. Out of the corner of her eye, Cersei saw Ser Boros shriek and run off. The Redcloaks began to run. The bear roared again.

And then fell silent.

Ser Barristan, his face drawn and cold, had appeared as if from nowhere, sword in hand, and cut off the creature's head off in one single mighty blow.

Cersei looked about her. Seven Redcloaks- among them Adam- had formed a circle of steel around her; the rest had either run off or were spearing down the Essosi where they stood. Myrcella was sobbing on Ser Barristan's chest; the Kingsguard had cut her out from the saddle she had been tied into. Ser Boros was lying on the ground, whimpering like some wounded beast. And Tyrion…

The demon monkey was sitting at the steps of the gazebo, a goblet of wine split at his feet and his face frozen into a look of pure shock and terror. Myrcella's fool nurse stood by his side- with a similar expression on her face. And by them also stood the young fool Oakheart, his white cloaks flapping like some impotent banner at his side.

Cersei straightened. Coldly, she commanded, "Guards! Kill the traitors! Kill them all! Ser Boros! Kill Ser Oakheart!"

"Your Grace," the young Kingsguard was the first to find his voice. "We…"

"Drop your sword, you traitor," Cersei all but screamed- and incredibly, the fool complied. The nest second, two Redcloaks were rushing at him with swords drawn. And then falling back.

Ser Barristan stood in front of Ser Oakheart, Myrcella hiding behind his legs. "Stand down, Ser Boros," the Lord Commander ordered. "Redcloaks, cease this madness! Everyone, stand down! The next man I see with naked steel in his hands, I will cut down myself!"

Cersei's blood was cold. Softly, she asked Ser Barristan. "You dare defy me, Lord Commander?"

"Your Grace…"

"You forget your place, Ser," Cersei's head was spinning. Traitors! Traitors! All of them! She would have them all executed! They would be singing of the Queen of Lannister for the next hundred years in King's Landing. Tyrion, Oakheart, Barristan… All of them! "Adam! Obey your Queen! Kill them all!"

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

Robert himself marched into the clearing. His fat gut was hanging out of his wine-sodden tunic. His breeches were stained with semen and Summer's Daughter, and the stench of Firewater hung about him like perfume. But in his hands was his mighty warhammer- and behind him came no fewer than thirty armed knights- the Blackfish, Renly, Loras Tyrell, Red Robar… and Jaime. Her beloved Jaime in his golden armour and his glistening blade. Even her beloved Joffrey was there; his face poking from behind a shrubbery while the Hound kept guard over him.

"Your Grace." Ser Barristan knelt before him. "The danger is past. Princess Myrcella is safe." He said as he ushered her darling daughter forward. He didn't even spare a glance at where Cersei was sitting on the ground, guarded over by her Redcloaks.

Robert dropped to his knees, hugging the sobbing Myrcella to his chest. "She is safe," he could be heard whispering as he felt her arms for cuts and scratches. Cersei began to rise, eager to rush to Myrcella's side- but Jaime was there, feeling her for injuries as well. "Are you alright, Cersei?" he was asking, sweating in fear and worry- but Cersei ignored him, her eyes only on her precious daughter.

"She is, Your Grace," Ser Barristan began to speak- but Robert had now passed Myrcella onto Renly who hugged her tightly.

"Get her to Pycelle, Renly," the king growled. "And if anything happens to her, cut off that fool's head yourself! Ser Barristan, you killed the bear?" He asked looking over the black ruin and the bodies lying around it.

"Yes, Your Grace. The Lady Aenera was good enough to tell me at once what was happening."

"Well done, Ser Barristan. Well done, indeed," Robert grunted as he stood up and made his way to where the demon monkey was sitting, still too stupefied to move and staring blankly at them all. He looked up as Robert stood in front of him.

"But the bear was muzzled…" Cersei heard him mumble, her heart beginning to soar in joy, as Robert began to raise his hammer…

"Your Grace!" someone was shouting. Renly was trying to keep Myrcella from looking at what was to happen. Ser Loras was running forward- and Ser Oakheart was openly weeping. Ser Brynden was running forward, shouting at Robert to stop! Jaime had abandoned her, scrambling on all fours and toppling over one of the Redcloaks in his rush to get to Tyrion. Fools! Didn't they see the King was finally acting like one for the first time in his life! "Kill him, Robert!" Cersei heard herself screaming. Even Jaime was rising to his feet; his face an ivory mask.

"Die, dwarf!" thundered Robert as he began to bring his hammer down- and was knocked aside by a charging Ser Barristan.

The next day found Cersei humming a cheerful song as she made her way back towards the Rookery, flanked by four Redcloaks. She had insisted on being the one to draft the letter to Lord Tyrion and Jon Arryn had seen no reason to refuse her. Once Lord Tywin heard what the imp had almost done, it wouldn't be a surprise if the news of his expulsion from House Lannister reached the Red Keep. Cersei could almost see the dwarf shuffling up and down the Wall, his prick freezing in the cold.

That the twisted monkey had even survived was a miracle. Robert was no longer the Demon of the Trident who had once smashed Rhaegar's chest open- but he was still a terror with the Warhammer, and his sheer bulk was enough to overpower Ser Barristan despite the latter's superior skill and get his hands on a stunned dwarf. Cersei wouldn't have minded seeing the old wretch and the imp die- but then Jaime had intervened, and Ser Brynden and Ser Perwyn and Ser Wylis. Then Jon Arryn had come in, limping and flanked by his household knights- all childhood friends of Robert- and together they had half-cajoled, half-muscled Robert back to the Keep but not before he had broken the little demon's nose with his massive fist and crushed two of Ser Robar's fingers on his left hand. That was all she had seen before Renly and Adam had ushered her into the Keep along with Myrcella.

Thankfully, her daughter hadn't been harmed- beyond the usual shock. The beast had been muzzled, weighed down with lead weights, and chained- and Ser Oakheart had refused to let her onto the Imp's bear unless she was padded up in the same training gear young squires used.

Nevertheless she had the Kingsguard thrown into the Black cells; let Barristan and Brynden croak as they would. Myrcella's nurse, she had thrown into the river at night; maybe Perwyn's goons could find her, maybe they won't.

"Your Grace," the Lyseni whore appeared at her side as if from nowhere. She wore yet another silken affair today- gauzy and leaving the back bare, with a golden Chrysanthemum crest embroidered over the front. Then again- whores dressed as whores, and there was nothing to it. "I trust princess Myrcella is recovering from the shock."

"She is resting in her rooms, guarded over by Adam and his men," Cersei said haughtily before deciding to be slightly more gracious. After all, the wretch had told her of the Imp's misdeeds. "You should've called my brother Jaime. Ser Barristan is old." And disloyal.

"Apologies, Your Grace. But I had always heard of Ser Barristan the Bold and how there were no…" the girl tittered, bowing slightly. Cersei suppressed a surge of irritation. Didn't the fool realize what danger Myrcella had been?

"Stop," Cersei commanded. "Grab the girl," she told the troops. As the whore looked on confused, they took her by the arms. "Lift her up."

"Your Grace, please," the girl began to plead- for the first time, realising the danger she was in. "I swear I meant…"

A sharp slap rang through the corridor. Cersei lowered her arm, smirking. "I should hand you over to the Redcloaks, you know," she told the softly sobbing girl. Already bruises were forming on her arms where the Redcloaks gripped her, the delicate silk ripping and coming apart on her sleeves. "They fought well yesterday. A reward is only due and you're a Lyseni whore, after all. Maybe they will take you two at a time or three? You're a tiny thing though; maybe you'll die before you've serviced them all. But what is that to me?"

"Your Grace…" the girl stammered, "I only wished to show my loyalty…"

"A fool could've seen you were angling for favour," Cersei interrupted coldly. "Put her down!" The whore fell down and tried to crumple into a little ball, sobbing. Cersei edged closer and cruelly stepped on her hand, smiling as the girl cried out in pain. "You cheesemongers hang onto your tiny rocks and little boats and think you own the World? Don't I know who has been funding young Edmure's hair-brained schemes? Don't I know where you stay? Did you think the eyes of Casterly Rock are blind, you little whore?" If Jon Arryn had been there, he'd surely rant about foreign relations- but Cersei had had enough of fools like him. Myrcella was nearly dead because of fools like him!

"I am sorry, Your Grace," the whore wept. "I was a fool to think I could trick you so easily. I was a fool to think the Tullys would be an adequate ally. I should've come into your service the minute I came to Westeros. I only wanted to make amends by aiding princess Myrcella…"

Cersei sighed. "Speak."

The girl pushed herself up. Her eyes were red from tears and her arms were trembling. Her once-fine dress was in ruins, almost falling off her shoulders. For a moment she stared at the ground, apparently too shocked to say her peace until a Redcloak dug the end of his spear into her side making her cry out in pain again.

"Speak, fool!" Cersei ordered sharply again.

"We will aid you, Your Grace," the girl stammered as fast as she could. "We will be your eyes in the Riverlands, in the Reach, across the Narrow Sea. I have built a spy network of my mine in the City and protectied it against Ser Brynden. We have acquired designs of Lord Edmure's new mouldboard ploughs; you can have them. Lord Baelish's reforms have left many wanting for coin; we Paenymions can release enough Volantene bullion to keep the Westerlands afloat. There are mercenary companies aplenty in Essos; we can…"

Cersei sparked to attention with the last words. "We already have contracts in Essos. Why should I need you?"

"They… We trick foreigners, Your Grace," stammered the girl, sitting on the floor and hugging her knees. "If the clients aren't as wise as Your Grace, they don't see we are tricking them. They end up paying far too much. If you allow me, we can have good mercenary companies for you at a discount."

"The Lannisters are rich enough…" Cersei began to speak- but then she remembered. "Can you arrange for weapons? Weapons from Essos?"

The girl nodded.

"What about bullion? There is a shortage of coins in the land because that fool Baelish ruined things. We have enough in the Westerlands but like in the Vale and Dorne, my Lord Father is limiting the outflow because he is afraid the crisis in the Reach and the Crownlands will spill over."

"Enough, Your Grace. Volantene tender is accepted all over the World!" The girl was all too eager to please.

Cersei smiled as she ran her eyes over the trembling little girl, the torn cheap silks, the red mark on her cheek where Cersei ha slapped her, the broken skin on her hands where Cersei's heels had dug in, the bruises growing on her slender arms. Why she was no more than a child! Did she think mere tittle-tattle would serve to get her into a Lannister's good books? "What was your name, whore?" Cersei asked coldly.

"Aenera, Your Grace. Aenera of House Paenymion."

"Well, little Aenera," Cersei was smiling. "I think you may have a point."

She had little cause to regret the deal. Within one month, spears and swords were flowing into the Reach- and Jon Arryn and Ser Brynden, along with the Tyrell and Ser Robar, were often seen speaking of the peasant's rebellion along the Mander. Further, the whore's spies had found that Black Walder was stealing from the gold Cersei had sent up north- hiring poor mercenaries such as Mirabelle's Men and buying rich Tully wine. Instead, Aenera had got her men in Lys to hire the Snake's Head company- one of the finest infantry companies in Essos, a thousand trained men armed and armoured. When the revolt broke out, the unprepared Tullys would be facing over two thousand professionals and ten thousand levees.

Tyrion came up to her one day as she was sitting in one of the Guesting halls. His hand was still in plaster but his nose looked well on the road to recovery. Only Myrcella's tears and Jon Arryn's admonitions had kept Robert from turning him into mash. Of course- it was unlikely Lord Tywin would've been so soft- but Cersei had 'forgotten' to mention the bear incident in her letters to Casterly Rock. Of course- it was undeniable that Lord Tywin would've heard rumours- but in absence of a clear statement from anyone, it was doubtful he'd move. And Cersei made sure Tyrion knew it. Why- the sheer schadenfreude of the Imp stumbling in the corridors, unsure at which moment the hammer would fall and Lord Tywin's wrath break upon him, was a pleasure beyond few Cersei had known. "That was Lady Aenera, wasn't she?" the demon monkey asked.

"Yes," Cersei sneered. "But what is it to you?"

The Imp frowned. "I have seen her roaming the entire Keep the past week. What on Earth were you doing?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Cersei began to walk away, unheeding of what the little demon had to speak but the latter began to run after her, hobbling on his stunted demonic legs. The queen stamped down on a surge of irritation; didn't the Imp realise that if not for Myrcella's tearful pleas, Robert would've had him executed already?

"You don't understand, Cersei. I have been studying Free City politics and economics these past months. The Paenymions… Lady Aenera's House… aren't originally Lyseni. They are Volantene refugees, a branch of the Main House who had to flee when they went against their Lord."

Cersei stopped, her silks rustling around her like a tempest. "Speak," she curtly ordered the little demon, turning around to face him. Simultaneously, she gestured to the guards around her to subtly move ahead of her. After all, who knew what lies the twisted freak might say if not adequately awed by her power?

But Tyrion gave little sign of being troubled at her gesture. "Conflicts between the Three Daughters," he began without preamble, "have raged intermittently since the earliest days of the Century of Blood. Even at their most united, distrust and ambition have plagued them- as well as the question of the Disputed Lands. No land in Westeros or Essos is more fertile, its soil more rich, its climate more salubrious- save for perhaps tiny Lys. I have heard that for every harvest the Reach makes, the Disputed Lands gives two- though I have also been hearing strange tales from the Riverlands these days…Anyhow, for years, these Three have fought constantly- for no two even allied can defeat the third."

"I know about their petty mercantile quarrels," Cersei snapped. It was getting cold, and she had a dress-maker coming. It wouldn't do to be late. She always had little patience with the endless back-stabbing and penny-pinching and hoarding that seemed to be the sole focus of any work dealing with the Free Cities.

"Tyrosh is the one most like the Seven Kingdoms in form," continued Tyrion in the same vein, "Its Archon is elected by a council of Magisters, much like Braavos- but unlike the Sealord, he doesn't serve for life. The position is of great honour…"

"What is your point, dwarf?" Cersei thundered at him.

Tyrion was looking more livid by the minute, his red face comical over his twisted features and stunted body. "Seventy years ago, a younger brother would fall out with his elders over an election. He would set sail to Lys and found what we call today the Lyseni Paenymion House."

"And that whore Aenera is part of it? So what?"

"While they might be part of the same Heptarchate, the truth is the branch Houses are little more than slaves of the Main House in Volantis. And the Volantenes maintain their hegemony jealously. There are rumours that the disaster at Mars Halaevar seven years ago was orchestrated by them. You must have…"

Hell's War…? Cersei suppressed a grimace of irritation at the fool's ramblings. Who cared for the writings of old fools and maesters? "Do you have a point to all this, Tyrion?"

"Just this," the demon monkey spoke with finality. "I believe what these Lyseni Paenymions are doing is try to bring the Iron Throne into their personal conflict. They aim to use our might, our knights and armies, to overpower the rest of the Disputed Lands and thus, strengthen their support in the Lyseni Council. Once that's done- they can declare independence from their Volantene masters, trusting in the strength of Lys' fleets to convince the Triarchs into signing a treaty. That's why they have been angling for Tully support. That's why they have been propping up young Edmure's businesses. That's why…"

"Tyrion."

"What?"

Cersei bent, almost face to face with the little monkey. O! How she hated his mismatched eyes, his crumbled jaw and twisted brow. If only she had smothered him when he was still a child. "You are wrong," she hissed in triumph.

Whatever the little monkey had expected, this wasn't it. For a few moments, he did nothing but merely stare at her in shock0 as if uncomprehending of her words. Maybe that was the case; after all it was well-known dwarves were deficient when it came to the higher functions. Why else would so many of them find employ only in mummer's fairs and acts? At length, the fool stammered, "What do you mean? How can you say that?"

Cersei glanced around. None were in sight- and her guards were utterly loyal to her in either case. Slowly, relishing every word, she spoke, "The whore serves me now." Her eyes blazed in victory as she considered the utter bafflement on the demon monkey's face. "They serve the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, not some upjumped fishmongers. While you have been pottering about among the dusty tomes in the Library and bedding all the whores in the Silk Street, I have been busy. Did you think I didn't know what our Lord Father had sent you here for?" she continued, gleeful at how the stunted demon appeared to shrink in front of her very eyes. Pycelle's aid and control over the Rookery had proved useful for once. "Your task was to oversee the Treasury here. And guess what, Tyrion?" She bent even lower, making the dwarf jump back in alarm. "You have failed. You failed in realizing that Robert's stupid declarations to calm the unrest over cheap grain were useless. You failed in realizing that these new reforms Jon Arryn and Baelish kept rambling on were hot air. You failed in realizing that the Paenymions could be our allies."

Tyrion was stepping back in alarm. "No, I am certain. My spy is a Volantene wine merchant. He cannot be wrong. I…"

A spy? Cersei latched onto it. "A spy, you say, Tyrion? Does good Ser Brynden know of it? You know they frown upon such activities these days, don't you? Has Ser Perwyn given you leave to start your own Goldcloaks? Have you had the permission to start your own Small Council as well now?"

"But Cersei…"

"And where is this spy now, Tyrion? Will he stand before the Iron Throne and say his piece?"

The imp looked panicked now. "I seem to have lost him last month… I can only say…"

"Say nothing," Cersei snapped before taking a deep breath. With little demons and murdering Freys, her life had become… Wait… she glared at Tyrion. Why was she even protecting Tyrion? Because Jaime loved him? Because Myrcella did? Because Kin-slaying was a sin? "Tyrion, I have a proposition…" Cersei spoke shortly. "I have business up north- and I need an agent I can trust."

XXXX

 _I was trying to make Cersei sound as depraved and evil as possible. It's surprising how easy it is. I rank Cersei as probably the most evil character in the series- and worse- unlike people like Littlefinger and Bolton, she really has no excuse for being evil. Cersei is probably the single-most misogynistic figure in the books. As for her treatment of Aenera, she thinks of the Free Cities much like Daenerys describes Khal Drogo does- houses hanging onto little rocky islands. Cersei knows that they are rich but doesn't really consider them a threat worth notice._

 _Also- she's nuts._

 _Naruto9tails Thrangail Medieval City charters were permissions to allow Guilds, allow City Councils, and set up City Guards. I'm using High Medieval models in Europe. It would've been better for Not!Edmure to use Chinese-style charters but it would be too advanced for the grimdark style ASOIF has. Also- as a HEMA practitioner, Not!Edmure would be more familiar with European history. As for the Frey marriage, I have given thought to it. Truth is- most of Westeros' marriageable women only come of age during the War and I'm not going to marry off Edmure to some little girl. There are other eligible women of course but very few- Dacy Mormont, Dalla (Mance's wife), some Waynwoods and Blackwoods. I have no interest in making this a Romance fic, to be honest. As for Aenera, I am not sure. She is an anti-villain and her family is using Edmure as a tool for a future plan. There is a good reason why she's so ruthless but I think marrying her will actually weaken Edmure's position once the wars begin and girls like Margery and Arianne come of age. There's always Daenerys as well- but she won't figure until after four years of warfare. As the story is pointing already, there will be a huge clash between the Tullys and the Frey faction- including the Vyperns, Brackens, and other families- so a Frey marriage is out of the question entirely._

 _Andrew ASOIF is based on High Medieval Europe. The glory days of the HRE were under strong Emperors like Frederick Stupor Mundi or Maximillian I; Robert is capable- but nowhere on the same level as Jaeherys and Daeron I. Even during the pre-Dance of Dragon days, Westeros was incapable of taking on Free City fleets. Within canon, the Free Cities are the equivalent of Renaissance Italian City States- which were more advanced, more professional and richer than Western European countries. It is very unlikely the levee armies of all Westeros- let along that of a single LP- can defeat the fleets and professional forces and mercenaries of the Free Cities unless in alliance with other Cities._


	27. The Grudge

YOHN

292 AC

Step by step, he inched closer up the slope. Gradually the voices grew distinct, harsh guttural voices slobbering over eerie, keening words. They were no language Yohn had heard before, not Lyseni Valyrian or the tongue of the Rhoynar slaves of the traders who plied at Maidenpool. It wasn't the common tongue either, be it the subdued quiet rasp of the western Riverlands or the more worldly dialects closer to King's Landing, nor even the harsh speech of the Ironmen.

At last, he spied movement. About thirty paces ahead or so, around a gently smoking campfire sat a band of men. There were at least three dozen of them, heavily built men clad in thick furs in the Northman style, despite the heat. Most seemed asleep; one of the two on watch had an axe slung across his back while the other was poking at the fire. At the far end of the camp, were the women, their heads bowed and wrists bound with rope behind their backs. Yohn gritted his teeth in rage.

"What now?" Miff whispered.

Yohn ignored him, straining his eyes and ears to get an estimate of the strength of his foes. As he did, he slowly rested his sword belt on the moist ground, thanking the Seven for the fur-lined inside as he drew his blade. From the corner of his eye, he noted the Red Ox do the same. The latter's blade was a full six feet long and polished bright enough for one's eyes to hurt when they rested long upon it, but Yohn had seen the old knight use it one-handed as if it was no more than an arming sword.

He would need that strength. _There are more of them than I'd guessed earlier_ , he thought, _and maybe more_.

They had come to the lands not a moon ago, hiding among the rushes and woods and copses that covered the left bank of the Green Fork and raiding the tiny nameless villages that dotted the many miles between the great settlements of the Twins and Harroway. These hamlets had long been Darry territory- but Robert' Rebellion had wrested them from the Targaryen Loyalists and bestowed them instead upon the Freys- who'd taken little interest in the area. And where the banners of the Riverlords weren't seen for long, it wasn't long before outlaws came around- and worse.

After a dozen torched villages, matters had grown pressing enough for word to reach Harroway. The Darrys were in disgrace and, knowing that Lord Hoster would've been little help, had instead reached out to Maidenpool and old Lord Mooton had, in turn, tried to butter up Lord Edmure, visiting his Lady aunt at Harrenhal, by sending a raven south. Yohn had taken little attention of it at first, guessing that the heir to Riverrun would take little notice of minor raids by the Mountain tribes, but instead Lord Edmure had replied back- via a heavily-coded missive- ordering him and the Red Ox to march out at once.

Finally, their hastily-assembled band of ten Riversguard had tracked down the tribals to near a palisade-fenced village near the High Road. The latter had attacked the village, stealing three goats and a cart of grain along with five women, and left behind three men slain and a cluster of smoking ruins where once homes had stood. The smallfolk had wanted food, they'd wanted justice, they'd wanted revenge- and most of all, they'd wanted their women returned to them.

Yohn had little food with him and he doubted they'd ever see the five women again- but given that there were no Freys in sight to them justice a full four days after the attack, he decided that the least he could've done was get them their revenge. He had allowed twenty villagers- armed with rough hunting spears and wicker shields to join their party.

Ser Jon Stuart, one of the new Riversguard Captains, crept up behind him. "What's the plan, Yohn?"

"We go around them," the Piper knight whispered back. "Surround and crush them in the middle. Without our horses, that's our best bet."

Sweat ran like rivulets down Yohn's brow. It was a hot day, so hot that even the normally wary tribals seemed to have given in to sleep- and the Riverlanders were all wearing the heavy mail and half-plate uniform of the new Riversguard, and had been on foot on the last leg of their chase. But where they'd gained in stealth, they'd sacrificed in speed- and strength. Ser Humphrey had protested vehemently when their tracker- a local- had suggested that. _A knight is his horse_ , he'd spat at Yohn. _Without a couched lance, all we are wildlings in plate_.

Miff, a grizzled Maidenpool veteran of Robert's Rebellion, shook his head. "Too long. They'll hear us then."

Yohn turned his head to look down upon their party, twelve knights and five villagers interspersed across the ridge they were crawling up. Miff was right; even organizing their party for a direct assault would take too long. "We go together," he told the seven nearest him- five knights, Miff and a village lad. "We kill as many as we can before they're ready. And when they're surrounding us, you strike them on the side. Tell the rest of them, boy."

Once all of them had nodded briefly to his words, Yohn turned his attention to the camp. Slowly inching forward, he brought his shield from where it hung across his back. The dull ache over his shoulders burnt with renewed viciousness once the strap was removed; it was a hot day and underneath the mail and padding, Yohn felt like he'd be melting soon. But at least he had armour- and his shield. _Oak and Iron, guard me well. Or I'm…_

"CHARGE!"

The two guards seemed to have been stunned into inaction at the suddenness of their attack. Before ten seconds had passed, Yohn had dashed across the grass between him and the first of them before driving his sword through his chest. Another heartbeat and he was thrusting his sword into a waking man's stomach. He bashed his shield into the head of the next one to arise.

The rest of the band were jumping to their feet, calling for weapons and screaming profanities at them- but they were still addled with sleep and their weapons were rusty in their sleep-stiffened joints and, despite what Ser Humphrey had said, a knight without his horse was still a knight. One of the tribals charged at Yohn- but it was the charge of a desperate man and the Piper knight danced out of his reach and lopped off his arm from the shoulder. His sword swung once again and disembowelled another. His next strike was blocked by a long dirk- but then came the Red Ox swinging his greatsword like it was a twig, and Yohn's opponent was split into twain. War cries sounded, and their rest of their company came swarming into the campsite. The struggle was over within seconds.

"A good haul!" remarked the Red Ox as he watched the villagers wrestle the last Mountain tribesman into submission. They'd secured the women; each of whom bore the marks of violence and disgrace- but still alive, as well as plenty of loot taken from what seemed to be half the villages of the Green Fork. Yohn had decided to give the gold to the villagers- though the weapons were to be distributed among the men as befitted sworn warriors.

The Red Ox walked up to where the last of their eight prisoners were lying prostrate and struck the first man such a might blow with his fist that he collapsed senseless. "Serves the heathens right! I figure we ought to leave their corpses on gibbets at the High Road. That'll give the vermin pause next time."

"What? No! Take them all prisoner!" Yohn exclaimed more than commanded- something for which he winced internally the next moment, "I'll have no murders in cold blood under my command!"

He was aware of angry, sullen and tired eyes boring into him the very next minute. The Red Ox, upon whom he'd grown to depend upon so much during his time in the east, was glaring at him as well. "Ser? These men are outlaws! Both Robert and Jon call for their deaths!"

"That is true," Yohn heard himself speak as he glared back at his older counterpart. "But we are sworn only to apprehend them. The crimes are for Lord Walder to judge." He grimaced as he said the words; the men around him- whether it be the easterners or the Tully loyalists from Pinkmaiden lands- loathed Lord Walder and his kin. _But I can't stand down to Humphrey now_ …

Yohn had perceived his poor standing among most easterners the minute he'd arrived. The older lords had taken umbrage at the power he'd been holding in the east after Lord Hoster had given his blessing to their operations- and the younger men, including the two hundred men they'd trained for Lord Edmure's Riversguard, found it easier to bow to the Red Ox. _And why not? Ser Humphrey is older. He is the greater warrior and the keener judge. He fought with the Dragons- both Red and Black- and even served in Essos during his youth_. Save for old Lord Mooton and Ser Jon, Yohn had few real allies and he knew it. Even when Lord Edmure was back in the Riversguard, he had little interest in the east itself and was all too eager to march towards where the new city of Riverstadt was rising at the confluence of the Trident.

He'd said as much to Lord Edmure as well in his letters but doubted whether his master had got the point. After all, business was booming. Yohn had compensated for the losses in the Vale by diverting grain to the south over the Red Ox's protests- something he was rightly proud of. He'd managed to pacify Harrenton by pitting them against Harroway and dealt with Saltpans by getting them to ditch their grain for sheep and salt. And yet- he knew he was out of his depth.

Maidenpool was swelling like an infected blister each day- even though they and Lords Mooton and Rykker had been trying to divert part of the traffic to little Duskendale- and the entire valley of the Trident seemed to be on the move, flowing west to the granaries or east to the ports. And from wherever they came and wherever they passed, disgruntlement flowed as well and all of it at Yohn himself. Lord Mooton himself had noted it one night during dinner.

"You ought to watch Harroway, Ser Yohn," the old Lord had warned him furtively, as if afraid of spies in his own Keep. "Roote has been smarting never since you started bringing over goods by boat rather than cart."

Yohn had winced while biting into his capon. "I had no choice! It was either that or pay every lordling whose lands Lord Edmure's carts passed through! And why should he be offended? I offered him fair price and he rejected it!"

"Even so," Lord Mooton had wrung his hands helplessly. "When Lord Edmure ordered me to buy up all the river galleys plying the Trident, I had no clue he would use them to monopolize the river trade and capture that on land. You ought to have warned me before you did that!"

 _I merely did what I was instructed_ , Yohn found himself chaffing at the man's words even though he knew Mooton well enough to know that the old Lord had not a vindictive bone in his body. "Lord Roote doesn't own the rivers. And the Blackwoods had no complaints."

"The Blackwoods have few men to spare for things like this these days. But the Brackens don't; you heard about the clash over the Teats, didn't you?"

"Whose teats?"

"Some hill named after two mistresses of the Unworthy," shrugged Lord Mooton helplessly. "I don't see why the Brackens and the Blackwoods are so proud of this past- but they like fighting for the Teats anyway. Jonos hasn't taken the recent largesse by Riverrun to Raventree well. And apparently some Piper knight tried him rudely… Apologies my Lord, but I fear there are some green knights at Pinkmaiden."

Yohn's ears had steamed; he knew the identity of the Piper knight in question. And he'd said more curtly than he'd wanted, "It's hardly my fault those glorified Dothraki haven't been tilling their fields properly!"

"True enough, Ser," Lord Mooton had replied quietly. "But the anger of Youth often invites the fist of Authority. Keep that in mind." And his eyes had wandered off to the empty seats towards the right of the table where his brother must've sat once upon a time before the Rebellion.

The Red Ox's voice broke into his reverie.

"With two thousand smallfolk coming up the Kingsroad, I suppose the trouble with storing excess grain might be solved- if not the way we'd have wished it to."

Yohn gritted his teeth and hissed a reply, as polite as he could manage then, "The grain will be repaid in full once we've put some of the men at work at the new distilleries. If there are any carpenters among them, we may even start early work on the plans for the new Wheelhouses Lord Edmure has sent."

"The ones with steel rods and devices and what not upon them?" exclaimed the Red Ox. "Mooton's own man understood nothing of them. I'd rather wait until Lord Edmure arrives himself. There's little sense in having more work- what with the port in the state it is in and the savages the Manderlys will be sending over from next week." Yohn personally thought the Red Ox's vitriol was undeserved. Maidenpool's protected location deep within the Trident ensured that it remained secure from the summer storms that afflicted Blackwater Bay and Gulltown at that time of the year.

Suddenly in front of them was the most curious man either of them had ever seen in their lives. The personage who'd appeared in front of them on the road like a gopher popping out of its hole was dressed almost like a crown in motley- with slashed sleeves on his doublet of rich velvet, white silken tights under knee-high boots of Lizardlion leather and a hat whose brim was as wide as the man was tall. With the great multi-coloured feathers on his hat and the ostrich feathers tied to his shoulders, he resembled a bird more than anything else- the most fabulously plumed bird in the history of Westeros. It was a few moments before Yohn realized there were nine more dressed exactly the same as him a short distance behind him. Each of them wore silver-lined breastplates and carried thin water dancers' blades at their sides- though they looked more wary than violent at the time.

"Braavosi!" whispered the Red Ox underneath his breath as he held up his arm for the company to halt. Turning to the foreigners, he addressed them politely, "My name is Ser Treppindale and my companion is Ser Yohn of House Piper. We are sworn to Pinkmaiden and through them, the Lords Tully in whose lands you now travel. Speak freely, Sers, so that we may assist you!"

The Braavosi gave no reply they could understand, jabbering in a bunch of lilting, curious tongues- but a bearded head did peek out from a nearby tree. The newcomer was followed by no less than five clerks and grooms leading their horses; and soon they were all standing on the road itself while the newcomer, dressed in a black tunic and cloak, rushed over to shake their hands.

"You must forgive us for being over-cautious, my Lords. We had heard of bandits back on the road and judged prudence to be the better part of Valour," he said in nearly flawless Common Tongue as he shook the Red Ox's and Yohn's hand in quick succession. "I have the honour to be Lorenzo Meris, banker to the Iron Throne of Braavos. My ship docked at Wickenden where I heard of yourselves' expedition and fearful that I won't meet you before this Grand Council is over, I decided to brave the dangers of these… Wildlings, are they called?"

Dear gods, groaned Yohn silently. As if the grumbling lords up the Green Fork needed more of an excuse to spread rumours about Cheese-mongering lords and dilettante heirs! And now a banker? A Braavosi at that?

Yohn hoped that Edmure kept in mind the fact that most of his would-be vassals were scarcely as loyal as the Pipers.

"No, Wildlings live beyond the Wall," growled the Red Ox. "Though our Lords seem to be trying their best to change that these days. These ones are tribesmen of the Mountains of the Moon."

"The very same, the very same," smiled Lorenzo Meris avuncularly as he signalled his guards to mount their beasts. "To tell truth, whom I really wished to meet were the Knights of the Order of the Heart of the Sea, the Knights of the Company of the Riverlands, and through them, the Lord Edmure of House Tully. I hope either of you both honourable gentlemen would satisfy these requirements?"

"Who on Earth told you we can?" the Red Ox snarled before Yohn could reply.

"A young urchin from yonder village," the banker said carelessly and no more- even though the older knight was glaring daggers at him.

The Red Ox scowled irritably. "Neither of us do, Ser. Though Ser Yohn's cousin is part of that group if what I hear is true. But why on Earth didn't you go to King's Landing itself in that case?"

"Summer storms are heavy sailing for an old banker like myself, good Ser," the Braavosi said with a bow. "And there was news of the Grand Council in Braavos as well."

What Grand Council?" barked the Red Ox.

"Alas! I know not as well, good Sers," the man bowed again. "All we had were rumours. I was hoping two steadfast knights such as yourselves would aid me in this!"

"I fear our Lords have not seen fit to include us two in those plans, Master banker," broke in Yohn irritably. Gods, what was Edmure up to now? A Grand Council? "I wasn't aware Lord Edmure had dealings with the Braavosi. But let's not discuss such things on the road, shall we? We will only be too glad to escort you to more favourable environs." Glancing sideways at his still glowering companion, he apologized, "Please do forgive us if our behaviour is too unseemly. We in Westeros have few dealings with bankers."

The Braavosi rubbed his palms together in what seemed to be utter glee. "Lead on, good Sers. Lead on! And fear not for He that practices the one Art deals with the Lizard men of the Thousand Islands as well, Ser Yohn," was the polite-sounding answer as he turned on his heels- leaving a flustered Yohn to bring a red-faced enraged Red Ox under control.

Slowly their party snaked its way south, via abandoned hamlets and overgrown woods. A few days later, the villagers parted company from them, sending them off with prayers to the Seven and promises that Lord Edmure had but to call for them to rush to his side. The phrase 'fuck the Freys' was heard as well- much to the joy of the Riversguard. Even the Red Ox was seen grinning underneath his beard. The Braavosi, for their part, were using the opportunity to improve their mastery of the Common tongue; soon most of them were as fluent as Master Lorenzo. Even the Riversguard had gotten over their distrust of the foreigners and were bonding with the Braavosi over the copious amounts of wine the latter had, playing games and learning each other's tongues.

It was good that they'd found ways to occupy their time. The way was long, weary, and – most of all, boring. The road was little more than a bramble-strewn dirt track, with overgrown hedges and untrimmed trees. The Freys- the overlords of these parts- had all but abandoned the lands, and the recent depredations of the bandit Aenys had done the rest. Fear of outlaws- and the stories of easy food and wealth to be had down south, where the great mills and printing houses of the Company, and the strong arms and ships of the Riversguard were growing, had convinced no few people to pack up and move. While earlier, the danger of the Mountain tribesmen ambushing them had kept the men sharp and eager, now there was nothing but ennui- and added protection of the Braavosi meant that even bandits would rather stay away from such a large and well-armed company. As such, there was nothing for Yohn to do but chat with Master Lorenzo and try to improve his knowledge of the Free Cities. They'd invited the Red Ox to join them in their conversations several times- but the older man had refused in ever more irritable words- until it had become a chore just to greet him in the mornings.

Thankfully- one of those mornings had found them mounting the crest of a wooded hill to see the Trident flowing in front of them, a mighty thread of dark blue and silver, dotted with green verdant islands and dark boats and galleys piled high with commerce- and beyond it…

Maidenpool.

Maidenpool the Mighty. Maidenpool the Industrious. Maidenpool- beating heart of the Trident. Maidenpool- where the docks of the Riversguard and the Company thrust their newly built navies into the Trident basin. Maidenpool, where the waterwheels and clothmills and the printing houses churned out trade goods for all the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Despite all the talk of Riverstadt being built to be even greater in size and commerce than the city spread out in front of them, sprawled over the banks of the glistening Trident, Yohn found it hard to imagine that any town in the Riverlands could ever surpass the City he had grown to love.

It was nearly evening by the time they had descended down to the valley and crossed the river via ferry. Mounted Maidenpool patrols- another sign of how Lord Edmure's trade genius had benefitted House Mooton- met them there, taking stock of the Braavosi and promised to have word sent to Maidenpool before them.

They were true to their word.

When their party reached the town gates, the guardsmen had already heard of their success with the bandits and it had been a job to keep them- as well as the nearby merchants and citizens- from plying the lot of them with beer and wine. "The Red Ox!" cheered someone from the rafters of a nearby building. "We love you, Ser Yohn!" a woman shouted, making the Piper Knight blush. "Up with the Company! Hurrah for Lord Edmure and Lord Mooton!" The streets were packed now, the people free after the day's trades were done and all too eager to cheer the returning Riversguard. "Hail the Pipers! Hail the Tullys!" came another shout. "Hail the Trouts!" shouted a woman in the distance- and this one was taken up. Up and down the streets and deep into the alleys, men and women cheered, "Family! Duty! Honour! Hail the Trouts!" Songs began to play; maybe it were some of the 'propaganda' bards Lord Edmure had Ser Karyl hire throughout the Riverlands- or merely those happy at the increased business in the lands, Yohn didn't know- but the strains of ' _The Song of the Trout'_ and its story of how the Trout saved the drying Lake began to echo. Even the refugees from the Crownlands and the west- driven to Maidenpool when the grain prices had collapsed, seemed to be cheering. The smallfolk knew the name of the one whose actions had driven down the prices of grain and created jobs at the new warehouses and mills, and that name was Tully. If things continued like this, thought Yohn as he bent from his horse to accept a rose from a little girl, there will never a rebellion again in the history of the Riverlands.

He said so to the Red Ox as the Keep gates closed behind them and the cheers of the Smallfolk began to die down.

The Red Ox merely glared at him. "Aye- that lot of smallfolk aren't going to rise up against Riverrun," he snorted. "The high lords will. Not everyone is a fish-worshipping westerner like us Pipermen."

Ser Jon frowned. "Do you think it wise to be saying this inside the Keep, Ser?" he asked worriedly. "It sounds… irreverent. Lord Mooton might hear."

"Or Lord Edmure might," replied a voice Ser Yohn had heard once earlier in his life- and never forgotten. Edmure Tully was taller and thinner than how Yohn remembered him. He had cut his hair short and trimmed his stubble- and in the dying light of the sun, his tanned skin glowed like bronze. The heir to the Riverlands wore old ringmail over which he'd put on a mud-and-water cloak. At his side was a cracked leather sheath which held a longsword. Indeed- there was little to denote him as one of the richest men of Westeros- save the newly-forged baselard by the side of the longsword. A long slit had been cut into the dagger's sheath- and through it poked the smoky grain of Valyrian steel. Behind him stood six young men- the secretive Order, Yohn recalled.

They had been eight in number when they'd first met; barely more than children, young and carefree and callow. Some had been children themselves- squires and striplings. The past four years had changed them.

Patrek was tall now, taller than any of them, and carried a great Warhammer with him. Hugo was a captain of the Gold Cloaks, respected and trusted by Ser Brynden, the Master of Laws of the Seven Kingdoms. Manfryd had won his knighthood recently and had been appointed auditor of the cattle trade- a task that had brought the Riverlands both prosperity and conflict. Tristan and Ellery had won their knighthoods recently and carried on Lord Edmure's work in their lands, the former working on flax and the latter on wool. Little Marq had been knighted as well and appointed Warden of the Hill marches by Yohn's Lord Uncle. Ser Perwyn wasn't among them- but Yohn knew that he was carrying out Edmure's will far away in Kings Landing.

All of them scrambled off their horses and knelt in front of Edmure. "Apologies, my Lord," added the Red Ox after the customary greetings were done. "My words were foul. I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"My name's Edmure, Ser, not Tywin. We Riverlords don't do such things," Lord Edmure snorted. "But enough of that. Heard you've crushed the bandits, saved the maidens, and recovered the gold. Slain any dragons also?"

Yohn grinned. "We would've but Robert got them all."

"Good for the King!" laughed Lord Edmure before turning his attention to the foreigners. "And I see you guys have made new friends! Hello, my good Sers! Welcome to Westeros and the Riverlands!"

"Lord Edmure Tully!" the Braavosi merchant laughed in response, holding out his hands for a handshake. "Even in distant Braavos, we have been hearing of your acumen in building and trade. Now I see the praise was all but grudging. Your town is magnificent!"

"You haven't seen anything yet, my Lord," laughed Lord Edmure in reply. "You haven't seen anything at all!"

The next day found the ten of them hunting in the shallows outside the town while Lord Mooton made preparations for their journey to the site where Riverstadt was coming up under the supervision of Maester Gared- newly arrived from Oldtown on Lord Edmure's request. Another Maester, a Northman named Harwyn, was in the west, preparing the lands for Lord Edmure's new reforms- though the latter had been loath to share them with Yohn at the time. But the young Piper knight's efforts in holding the east together hadn't been forgotten.

As the hunt winded down and the servants they'd brought from Maidenpool began to bag the catch- three does, a boar, and a magnificent Stag- Lord Edmure bade them all assemble in a clearing. There he dismounted, a sign that they ought to as well, and signalled one of his men to handle his palfrey as he answered some question Marq had been asking, "Maester Vyman thinks I'm nuts to be stepping on the Rootes' toes- even after I'm promising them hereditary positions here but they've agreed to help in building the place at least."

"The banks looked solid," opined Marq as he stamped the earth. It was good, firm clay; it would grow a good crop. "I don't think there will be a problem with floods as with Harroway."

"Aye," said Edmure looking around and stretching his long limbs. "Barges and Poleboats can come and go from both rivers; grain and iron from the west, cattle and coal from the north, wool and flax from the south, stone and timber from the borders. Riverrun in the west will give us our men, Maidenpool in the east our gold, and Riverstadt will be the lynchpin of it all. I think a timber hall will serve well as a centre for the town for now. I think wood would suffice for the Motte-and-Bailey castle we are building opposite Riverstadt on the Green Fork as well. I doubt the Mountain tribes have much knowledge of siege craft."

"Well, there are enough trees there to build a Motte-and-Bailey larger than Harrenhal," remarked Patrek, looking at everyone gather in a circle. "I suppose you'll be getting limestone from the Falcons?"

"In due course. I mean to raise mud walls first on the landward parts and shallows, at least four miles long and six feet thick and high on all sides."

Patrek whistled, "You have your work cut out then. Don't you mean sixteen feet high though? A six feet wall is just going to keep out wolves."

"I agree," said Manfryd morosely. "Now that Bloodborn's finally lost it, you'll need something to keep out his outlaws if they come knocking."

"That's hardly my problem, Yohn. Kneel," ordered Edmure, drawing his sword from its sheath. In front of six stunned young men and as a speechless Yohn dropped to his knees, Lord Edmure tapped him softly on the right shoulder, and then the left. "Ser Yohn formerly of Pinkmaiden, I, Edmure of House Tully as heir to my Lord Father, Hoster of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, do declare you in sight of gods and men, the First Sword of Riverstadt and Keeper of the Forks. To you I give it, and to your heirs of the body, as long as the Realm endures and the Tully Trout commands these lands."

Yohn's eyes were wide with shock as whispers- and then applause, led by Marq- broke out, the Red Ox's loudest of them all, "Lord Edmure… this… I am too young…"

"Not at all," was the brusque answer. "You managed magnificently. For four thankless years you have held the fort in the east. It was time you had a reward. I spoke with both Lord Mooton and Ser Treppindale here and both agree there are none better."

"Thank you, my Lord," said the still-stunned Yohn.

"Don't thank me. I did you no kindness at all. Your life will be hell for the next few years. And as for your duties," Edmure took a deep breath. "You are to hold the new Motte-and-Bailey built across the Green Fork from Riverstadt as well as one of the three chairs in the City Council. I give you permission to raise an anchorage and run a ferry service across the Green Fork as well. I'm sorry I can't give you much farmland- but you will receive a twentieth of the taxes that the City collects and the harvest from the City lands will suffice to feed any Household you do build. Unless of course," Edmure grinned, "you're lazy and Aegon Frey and the Mountain men carry off the grain." Gasps broke out all around- and Yohn's eyes almost bulged out in surprise. A twentieth of the taxes! "As Keeper of the Forks, I also charge you with building boom chains all across the Green and Red Forks where they meet to form the Trident. With the river- fortresses that I have contracted the Braavosi to build over Ruby Ford, not even a raft will travel in the Trident without my hearing of it."

"Who's going to hold Ruby Fort, Ed?" asked Patrek.

"No one. I've spoken to Darry and his son will squire for me in exchange for enough land to build a Chapterhouse for the Order which we will permanently lease to the Company. I'm not creating a new house Frey of the Trident."

It was then that Yohn looked into Edmure's face as he spoke, finally seeing past the Riverlord's young face to the heart of someone whose desire to build, create and forge was beyond anything he'd seen or heard of apart from the King of Winter, Brandon Stark of legend. "Lord Edmure! If you plan this! You're planning to gain control of all the trade between Kings Landing and the Neck! And Riverstadt… It'll be as rich as one of the great cities, maybe as rich as White Harbour itself" This was unprecedented to say the least. The Riverlands had no lack of market towns and port towns- but none of them had ever grown into a real town. Even Harroway with twenty thousand inhabitants or Fairmarket with fifteen thousand had taken centuries to grow to where they were.

"That's fairly ambitious, Ed," whistled Tristan. "Have you thought how your town will compete with Fairmarket and its like?"

"Don't be ridiculous, guys." Edmure's eyes blazed with aggression and enthusiasm. "I'm not going to place yet another meaningless town on some meaningless spot on the Riverlands. Riverstadt will a city, a true city. I've already wrangled a charter from Jon in exchange for taking in the Wildlings. I may have promised Harroway not to despoil their trades- but I have promised nothing to Fairmarket or Saltpans. My Lady Aunt rules Harrenhal and is allied to me. I mean to give positions to Cox knights and men, there are enough runaway slaves working at Maidenpool, and I mean to use some of my earnings to settle at least two hundred apprentices, if not their masters, in Riverstadt. Before this year is over, I mean to have twenty thousand people in this town. The next year, thirty five thousand. After that, fifty thousand. And why rest there? Between Yohn's Keep and Riverstadt itself, there's space enough for a million to live comfortably!"

"Ha," laughed Tristan. "You don't mean to make a second King's Landing, do you?" But he fell silent when he saw the look in Edmure's eyes.

"Why not? We have over five thousand acres to build Riverstadt on. And I mean to build it well. Four great parks will anchor the city on each corner. There's a small stream that arises from the hills near Fairmarket; I plan to divert it into Riverstadt via an aqueduct- and use it to run the drainage system Maester Vyman is designing for me. I will not have the stinking cesspit that is King's Landing or the hide-bound morass that is Oldtown in Riverstadt! That reminds me- we must send to the Citadel for another maester at once! Preferably one who knows the ways of the Wildlings or is of the First Men himself! Maester Gared will do for Rubyfort and Maester Harwyn for Yohn's new home- but for Riverstadt, I want bigger guns!"

"Guns?" the Red Ox exclaimed in puzzlement- but the rest appeared in tune with Lord Edmure's occasional eccentricities.

"I thought you didn't like maesters!" smirked Hugo.

"I don't like Pycelle; he's a creature of Tywin Lannister. But you're right. Blind trust would be harmful for our Order." said Edmure carelessly as he pressed on, disregarding the looks of shock on his friends' faces, "Archmaester Marwyn would be trustworthy or so I hope… But I don't know… Tristan, your home is closest. I'll write a letter. Can you have it sent and ride back to Riverrun by tomorrow? I have another task of you before the Great Council begins."

"As you say, Edmure."

"Ellery, would you please run back to Maidenpool with the game? We have enough for the entire Keep and the Braavosi would love a Westerosi-style feast. Also- please have a raven sent to Stoney Sept asking Septon Meribald to join the hosts and refugees making towards Riverstadt. The Faithful will require spiritual succour."

"Who's Septon Meribald," asked Ellery- with most of the group appearing to share his confusion. Lord Edmure began to speak- but Tristan cut him off. "Don't ask. He had most of our knights sent out to find the man. Over forty knights marching up and down the Riverlands to find one man and his puppy!" He finished with a groan.

"Let me guess- he calls the puppy 'puppy', doesn't he?"

"How on Earth…"

"Because I can see the future!" their Lord laughed. "And Ellery, mention in your letter that the Elder brother agrees with the discussion I had with him. Ser Treppindale."

"My Lord?"

"How many centuries of the Riversguard do we have?" The century was a new organization the Order- or rather Lord Edmure- had formulated. Over a year of discussion and correspondence over raven, the eight young men of the Order had stitched together a battle structure that Yohn had never heard of in his life. A hundred men in half-plate and mail- armed with halberds and maces – would be in each century. The men themselves would be men-at-arms and lowborn veterans of earlier wars, though led by trained knights from the smaller houses, as Lord Edmure had insisted. The poor nobility would be more in touch with the smallfolk, had been his reasoning, and thus would fight the harder. Raised all over the Riverlands, they were all trained at Maidenpool, under the Red Ox's careful eye. Lord Edmure had wanted them to have at least the barest knowledge of military life- before he himself came down to train them.

"Six, my Lord. Though we are having two more raised from the refugees at Maidenpool. Another one is being raised among the men of Harrenhal- though we haven't had the coin for their equipment yet."

"Ah- yes," smiled Lord Edmure carelessly. The lack of coin in the Crownlands and the surfeit of grain had driven many out of business and the Company had taken advantage of the crisis to buy their businesses and their services cheaply. Yohn didn't agree with it in full- but he supposed the Riverlands took priority over the Reach and Crownlands. "Don't worry about the coin. Pay the traders in promises and back them in my name. Or give them land for a house in Riverstadt. That should tide us over for now."

"That is fortunate, my Lord," exclaimed the Red Ox. "If we can have a few hundreds of such traders shift to Riverstadt, we can have the heart of a flourishing city raised within the year. I hear your Wildlings are mostly women, children, and youth. We can have quite a few of them trained and apprenticed as well."

"Not to mention- drafted into the Riversguard," pointed out Marq.

The Red Ox frowned. "Would that be wise, Ser Marq? These are cannibals and savages after all. Trusting them with weapons…"

"They are miles from home- and their only succour in a sea of Southerners are us," replied Lord Edmure. "Not to mention- they only follow the strongest. As long as we're better armed…"

The Red Ox's frown deepened, "This is no joking matter… but I suppose you may be right. I believe we can raise a good five centuries of Riversguard from the Wildlings alone- if they consent to fight for us."

"And since they're Wildlings, they'll take to war like ducks to water," broke in Patrek happily. "We can have at least twelve, no- even fifteen centuries- before the year is done."

"That's good. Ser Treppindale, this request might sound weird- but please ensure that only half-trained, ill-equipped, newly raised Riversguard are seen in the north until the Grand Council begins. Hell- have the trained Riversguard all drafted to help build Riverstadt; don't let them run around. The soldiers might grumble at manual work- but I hope you'll keep them under control."

"They'll obey orders," was the Red Ox's glum reply. "There's no high lords or their ilk among them. Begging your pardon, Sers."

"None taken, good Ser," said Patrek cheerfully. "Edmure, what are my orders?"

"I am feeling a bit hot," said Lord Edmure. "Let's go sit underneath a tree while the others go ahead. You four," he waved his hand at Patrek, Hugo, Marq and him as he strode off at a fast pace, "Leave to the others to their tasks." They followed him as he marched towards a nearby copse of willow. Behind them, they heard their friend's ride off to fulfil Edmure's commands.

Once they were out of hearing, Edmure started without preamble, "The Freys, the Brackens, and the Vyperns. All of them are going to rebel. The Queen and the Lannisters are aiding them in this. Already mercenary companies are assembling in Essos."

Birds chirped in the branches atop. Dappled sunlight streamed down through the leaves. Deep in the undergrowth, twigs broke as foxes and rabbits romped. And as everywhere in the Riverlands- in the distance, they could hear the gurgling of waters and the babbling of brooks.

Yohn was the first to recover his wits. Softly, he asked, "Are you sure?"

"Varys," was the reply- and it was enough.

"How many?" asked Patrek.

"Maybe ten thousand," shrugged Lord Edmure. "Maybe fifteen, if we give them time to assemble. And I have no idea how many mercenaries they are getting. Depends on if Lord Tywin decides to throw his weight behind Ser Emmon."

"We can raise more than them."

Lord Edmure shook his head. "It will take too much time- and if they take alarm, they will lower their banners and slink away. And it's not just a question of pure numbers, they have trained mercenaries after all. Besides- too many will be slain. No," he hissed, "The boil has to be lanced. The rot has to be cut out. We must be swift, precise!" He looked from one pale face to another. "And I wish to do it without involving too many of the lords."

Yohn and Hugo- the eldest of them- nodded sagely. The latter explained to the confused Marq and Patrek. "If the Tullys take the aid of all their banners, their ability to do with the Freys what they will, will be gone."

Suddenly- Yohn realised what Edmure was really implying. "You mean to raise this issue during the Grand Council?" he asked. "Capture the Frey attendees and use them as bait?"

Edmure's reply was cold as the Trident flowing in the valley below them. "No. The Grand Council is the bait."

XXXX

 _Early to High medieval law was complex, and very different from what pop-culture depicts it to be. In addition, it was extremely personal in nature. A Feudal lord was expected to keep his feudatories in control by his own merits and strength; Imperial or Royal help- while useful- was actually a mark against the ability of the Feudal lord. Inability to do so was a sign of divine disfavour as well- especially since knights and minor lords were encouraged to look upon their Superiors as agents of God himself. Until the age of Enlightenment, 'private enterprise' wasn't a virtue, even during the so-called renaissance._

 _Even in canon, we find that the Reyne- Tarbeck rebellion was preceded by long period of unrest where Aegon V had to send Royal troops thrice to the Westerlands to calm things down- which only ended up delaying the rebellion and causing more damage to Lord Tytos' respect. Also- with foreign help, the Tully lose the right to punish the Freys as they want; you can't 'abolish' feudal rights lest the rest of the Kingdoms protest. The Freys are also Lannister allies- if you recall._

 _From the WOIF, it's clear that the Riverlands are probably the weakest and most loosely held Kingdom in the entire Realm- with the Tullys ruling less land in comparison to their feudatories than any other Great House. In addition, they were never kings in the first place. Also- even calling the banners to fight an internal rebellion is another insult and sign that the Lord Paramount and his close allies- in case of the Tullys, the Pipers and Mallisters- are too weak to fight off a rebellion on their own. Again- in canon, we have precedence of even 'loyal' feudatories and 'personal' friends holding off help or being half-hearted in support to their liege lord when the latter is threatened._

 _This is partly a plot-point even in story and one of the things Not!Edmure is trying to change, paralleling the replacement of Common Law in Germany with Roman Law- which lead to the Knight's Rebellion by Franz von Sickingen, the Last Knight- which only ended after the direct intervention of the Swabian League, an Archbishop, multiple principalities, and in the face of an Imperial Ban. It, partly, led to the Great Peasants' War as well- where more than 150,000 people were killed._

 _Do note that for over two years in my story, the peasant unrest in the Reach has been a major point of note._

 _While people in the reviews have rightly observed that the Frey coalition might not be able to kick out the Tullys from Paramountcy- if only for the support of the Starks and Arryns, they can very well force other, more important changes- reduced taxes, trade monopolies, subsidies- remember Edmure has beggared a lot of people with his cheap grain, the right to Borough charters, Fair rights etc. They don't even need to win for this- with the fifteen thousand odd troops they have, merely holding the twenty to twenty-five thousand troops Hoster has- scattered all over the Riverlands, if you recall- would be enough for them to get what they want._


End file.
